How To Lose Your Dragon
by giraffelove92
Summary: He had gained Drogon's respect and – dare she say it – affection, which had before been reserved only for her. And he was so fucking noble that she couldn't even find it in herself to be jealous. Jonerys.
1. Chapter 1

**So you know what's crazy? I actually started writing this last Sunday, before any of today's episode leaked online. I thought to myself "I would love it if Daenerys went up beyond the wall to stage an epic rescue with her dragons, but that will never happen because it's GoT and shit like that only happens once a season and there has already been an awesome dragon battle, so I'm just going to write about it." But then I found out that she** _ **does**_ **stage an epic rescue – far more epic than the one that happens here, since I was trying to be a little more realistic considering how GoT usually turns out – and I was so super excited.**

 **Anyways,** _ **She Rises**_ **isn't going anywhere, and neither is** _ **The Zone Where Black and White Clash**_ **, so don't freak out. I'm just on a GoT kick recently, since it's upped the ante this season.**

 **Also, I am aware that Jon and Daenerys share more DNA than anyone else on this show besides Jaime and Cersei, and that it's really pretty gross, but hell, this is Game of Thrones. Incest is trendy.**

…

 **OH MY GOD, I'VE BECOME COMPLACENT.**

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oooo

"I'm an idiot."

"Don't disparage yourself – "

Daenerys whirled on her Hand, her heart clenching with anxiety. "Jon Snow is now my closest ally, and I said a cheerful goodbye as he sailed off to venture beyond the wall," she said forcefully. "This was a ridiculous plan." Her nostrils flared, and she wrung her hands worriedly. "What if he dies?"

Tyrion sat down in a chair, looking weary. "I know you've only known Jon Snow for a brief time," he said, "but trust me when I say the man can take care of himself. Now that my brother's lost his sword hand, Snow is widely considered to be the best swordsman in Westeros." He paused to pour himself a drink. "He's a Northman, and he'll be surrounded by other Northmen. Northmen are tough as nails."

She swallowed, and sat heavily. She pictured the man in her mind: powerfully built, rugged, with years of hardship etched onto his face. He had plenty of scars; even though she'd only seen his skin from the neck up and from the wrist down, the scars she'd seen were countless. And his eyes held a certain determination that most men lacked – hard and dark and hot, full of carefully controlled passion and a spark of recklessness that made her nervous.

 _You like this man,_ Missandei had said while helping her dress for bed one night. _The Northerner._

Daenerys had felt deeply uncomfortable. _He's not hard to like,_ she'd said, her tone aloof. _He seems kind._

 _He stares at you,_ her advisor had murmured quietly.

Those words had haunted Daenerys since that day. _He stares at you._

"I should have sent someone with him," she said. "More men than just Ser Jorah."

"Do you imagine the Dothraki doing well up there beyond the wall?" Tyrion said sardonically. "I stood up there, once upon a time, and looked out. Nothing but snow and ice and rock, with a smattering of trees here and there. It's a wasteland. The Dothraki wouldn't last an hour." He took a long sip of his drink. "Besides, I imagine a smaller party moves faster, and more quietly."

"I've sent him to his death," she whispered, ignoring the practicality of his words. "I should have sent more men. Or done something more than stand there like an idiot as he sailed off on his ship." She pinched the bridge of her nose.

There was a pause, and Tyrion cleared his throat. "That still might be an option."

She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about? They've been gone for weeks. They've undoubtedly passed the wall by now."

The dwarf drummed his fingers against the stone table, looking out the window. Her gaze followed his, and her eyes alighted on Viserion and Rhaegal, who dove into the sea to catch fish.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked quietly, her gut clenching.

"I heard that one of your dragons was quite taken with Jon Snow," he quipped. "I've touched your two smaller ones on their necks before, down in the catacombs beneath Mereen. It was terrifying. Drogon is another matter entirely. And yet Qhono said he saw Snow stroke his nose as he would a hound." He raised an eyebrow at her.

She exhaled heavily. "Drogon was trying to intimidate him – it was a test, I think," she said. She smirked slightly. "The King in the North remained undaunted. Besides me, Drogon has never encountered anyone who hasn't cowered before him. Snow earned his respect."

She remembered how her heart had skipped in her chest when she'd seen him run his palm over Drogon's snout, his expression one of awe instead of terror. She remembered how much she'd wanted him in that moment. It had been an irrational desire, built upon the fact that an exceptionally good-looking man had looked her wildest son in the eyes without fear – only caution and respect. She was attracted to him, to be sure – she'd have to be blind to not appreciate how handsome he was, and how he carried himself: confidently, but not proudly. What was most attractive was that he didn't seem at all aware of his own physical aesthetics – completely oblivious to the way all eyes followed him when he moved. That sort of humility, combined with physical beauty and the bravery that he'd shown when faced with her dragon…well, such a package didn't leave much to be desired.

"Would it be safe to say that Drogon _liked_ him?" Tyrion said suggestively.

Daenerys shrugged. "As much as he could ever like anyone, I suppose," she mused.

"You have three dragons," Tyrion said slowly. "I know all of them are deeply important to you – they're your children. But would it be too much of a stretch to send one of them north?" He paused, and something that looked suspiciously like amusement glimmered in his green eyes. "If it's of any consequence to you, of course. We'll do just fine without Jon Snow," he said, looking at her knowingly over the rim of his cup. "His sister Sansa is a smart girl, and has the makings of a good leader. We would merely shift our attentions to negotiate with her."

The very idea of it filled her with rage, unexpected and illogical. She narrowed her eyes. "No," she said sharply. She hated that she could see the triumph in his eyes. "And don't try to manipulate me like that," she ordered. "Next time just come out and ask me how I feel about Jon Snow. No need to beat around the bush. I think we've passed that stage of our relationship."

Tyrion smiled, and raised his cup to her in supplication. "And if I _were_ to ask you how you feel about Jon Snow, as you suggested, would you give me an honest answer?"

She raised her chin haughtily. "I would be very disappointed if I learned that he'd perished beyond the wall," she said with a sniff.

"Good," Tyrion said, reading into the meaning behind her words. "Because I may or may not have briefly discussed the idea of marriage with Ser Davos while you were rendezvousing with Drogon and the King in the North on a cliff." He took a long slurp of his wine, and continued before she could splutter out a response of any kind. "He seemed amenable to the idea. He didn't say anything to Snow, of course. He knows how to be subtle. He'll plant the seed and let the idea take root. Jon Snow is fiercely independent – much like you," he continued. "But that's a conversation for another time. Right now I'd like to suggest you send him some backup in the form of a very large fire-breathing dragon."

Daenerys glared at him, her heart pounding in her chest as images of Jon Snow doing less than appropriate things to her body rose unbidden in her mind. She shoved them aside to focus on the problem at hand. "I'll go to them and ask," she said through clenched teeth. "Although I'm not entirely sure how they might locate him if he's already north of the Wall."

"If whatever dragon you send can't find him, then he and his group are no worse off than they were before," Tyrion said dismissively. "If your dragon does find him, it might be the difference between life and death."

She chewed on her lip. Risking one of her children for the King of the North –

She stood abruptly. "I'll take Drogon, head north as fast as I can – "

"No, you absolutely will not," Tyrion said forcefully, standing to face her. "You're not going. It's too dangerous."

She fumed and stared him down. "I am the queen," she bit out.

"Right now you are a petulant child," he returned hotly. "Being queen doesn't mean you get to do whatever you want. You have a responsibility to your people – and right now that responsibility includes remaining alive and well." He tilted his head. "Don't be foolish. If I have to, I will risk life and limb to convince your own children to back me up on this."

Her jaw dropped, and she sat down and crossed her arms with a huff. When she realized that it _did_ make her look petulant and childish, she frowned. "Fine," she said hotly. She could not argue with his logic.

"Another thing you and Jon Snow have in common," Tyrion muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. "Recklessness."

She clenched her teeth, and stood again, tired of hearing Jon Snow's name. She didn't want to think about him. It was too much for her brain to handle right now. Instead, she swept out of the room, ignoring Qhono and Hafik, who immediately fell into step behind her.

When she exited the castle, holding her coat more tightly around her body as the wind kicked up, she scanned the skies restlessly. Drogon was the first to come to her, as was usual. Rhaegal and Viserion followed at a leisurely pace, coming to rest behind their brother, looking at her with green and gold eyes.

She didn't even have to speak. Drogon gave a low rumble, and she laid a tender hand on his nose. "Be safe, please," she whispered. Then she looked into his red-orange eyes one last time and sucked in a nervous breath as he lifted off, climbing high into the sky. She shielded her eyes from the sun and tracked his movements, watching as he flew north until he was only a speck in the sky. When he disappeared from her sight, she sighed, and laid a hand on Viserion's head, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Rhaegal came to stand on her other side, and he pushed his emerald nose underneath her arm impatiently. She scratched him under the chin affectionately.

"Stay close to me," she whispered to them. "You help ease my fears." They did as she commanded, and she walked over to sit down on the cliff where she'd spoken with Jon Snow not four weeks before. She dangled her legs over the edge, and her sons stretched out on either side of her, laying their heads down on the rock.

Despite her efforts not to think about Jon Snow, he kept popping into her mind. She sighed, and contemplated marrying him.

She supposed it wouldn't be that bad. Out of all the lords in Westeros, he was probably the most bearable.

 _Likeable,_ her mind whispered insidiously. _You fancy him._

She bared her teeth irritably and looked out over the sea. She had a lot of thinking to do.

* * *

oooo

 _I've grown used to him._

Jon swallowed. Looking out into the world of white before him, he pictured Daenerys in his mind's eye – fair, beautiful, powerful. A woman worthy of his respect.

A woman apparently worthy of his affection, as well – or so his traitorous brain kept telling him.

"So, this dragon queen," Tormund said gruffly from beside him, his voice quiet. "She hot?"

Thoros of Myr chuckled from behind them, and Jon stiffened, glancing back towards the rear and relaxing minutely when he realized Jorah Mormont hadn't heard.

"She's attractive, yes," he returned with a roll of his eyes. "Any other great matters of importance you wish to discuss?" he asked dryly.

"You fuck her?"

Jon reached out lightning fast and punched Tormund hard in the arm. "No, I didn't, and if anyone loyal to her heard you talking like that you'd be hauled off to become a dragon's snack," he hissed lowly. "Bite your tongue."

The redhead grunted and sniggered, and Jon rolled his eyes, feeling his mood sour. Daenerys Targaryen was the definition of unattainable. Besides – Ygritte still haunted his dreams at night.

At the end of the day, he didn't have time for women – alive or dead.

And as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to meet the blue stare of a dead man, he remembered the reason _why._

oooo

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 **Hurray – first chapter down.**

 **This won't be super long. Just a handful of chapters. Trust me, I'm not going to abandon my other stories in favor of starting a new one that will end up being 200K words. That would be incredibly irresponsible.**

 **Anyways, the next chapter will be up tomorrow. I'm struggling to not just overhaul what I've written so far, now that I know what's coming – but that would be boring, so I'm just going to disregard anything that happens after 7x05 and go in my own direction.**

 **Please review if you feel so inclined!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Short chapter, but the next one will be up tomorrow.**

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oooo

"Duck, my friend!"

Jon instantly dropped to a knee as Beric Dondarrion slashed his flaming sword through the air in a high arc, beheading the blue-eyed corpse that was bearing down on him with a rusty axe.

Jon never looked too closely at the dead he was fighting. He was always afraid he might see a familiar face.

"Wait," Jon said as Beric turned, unknowingly putting his back to a skeleton that popped out of the snow. "Dondarrion – "

Beric took a sword to the calf, and Jon lunged, driving his Valyrian blade through the empty chest cavity of the dead creature, watching as it shattered into a spray of bones. He grabbed the man with the eye-patch around the waist with his free arm and hauled him through the snow, waving Tormund on as the half-giant thought to wait for him. Tormund took no heed, falling back to grab Beric by his other side and helping Jon to drag him forward.

"Lose him!" the Hound snarled from behind them, cutting a path through the heavy snow. They'd been running for well over an hour now – anytime they thought they might be free of the dead, more kept appearing.

"He's right," Beric agreed, grimacing in agony. "I'm dead weight. Leave me, Snow."

"Forget it, I'm not just going to let you – "

Suddenly a deafening roar sounded loud from overhead, and Jon ducked instinctively, pulling Tormund and Beric down with him as a jet of fire streamed over their heads, so close that Jon could smell the singe of hair. He straightened, and looked up.

Black and crimson flashed before his eyes. Drogon was so shiny against the drab backdrop of black and white that it nearly blinded him. The dark dragon screeched in the face of his enemies, letting out another stream of fire that sent wights scurrying in either direction – those that weren't fast enough were burnt to ash in seconds.

"Run, lads," Tormund bellowed, standing again and helping Beric and Jon to their feet. "Make for the caves! We've got cover!"

And cover they had. Drogon swooped down to crash into the ground next to the group of men, his great black wings shielding them from a barrage of arrows that rained down from a cliff up above – Jon looked up, and a White Walker stood looking down at him with cold, otherworldly blue eyes, surrounded by wights with arrows nocked to their bows. He shivered.

Feeling a sudden burst of energy as hope rekindled in his chest, he swung Beric's slender frame up onto his shoulders, ignoring a sharp pain in his thigh and a deep ache in his chest that suggested at least one broken rib. He grunted, and then surged through the snow, Tormund at his side. He saw Gendry sling an arm around Mormont's waist as the man stumbled, and blood dripped into the snow as they plunged forward.

It took them another few minutes to get to the caves that the free folk had used many a time before. For some reason, there were a handful of places that remained untouched by the dead – Jon thought it might have to do with ancient traces of the children of the forest and the hot springs.

"Get inside," Jon ordered harshly, stumbling under Dendarrion's weight as his boots finally landed on hard stone unhindered by snow. Drogon squeezed in behind them, and curled up at the entrance with his back to them. Tormund unstrapped a few logs from his back, and pulled some kindling from his pocket. He struck up a fire immediately, and coaxed it to life as Jon lowered Beric to the ground as gently as he could.

"Let's get patched up," Jon said roughly. "Those of you with minor injuries help those with more serious wounds. Make sure any bandages are dry before you use them – hold them by the fire, if needed." He grunted and shed his pack, digging into the bundle for supplies. "Unless you're looking to get an infection." He gestured to the small pools of water farther into the cavern, trying not to think too hard about the last time he was in a cave like this. "That water is clean and warm – make sure you clean your wounds as best you can."

He paused, noticing that most of the men had frozen. They were all looking at the wall of scales that had blocked them in – Drogon had formed a barricade of sorts at the mouth of the cave, curled up so that he could keep watch. Only one folded wing and part of his back and leg were visible – the rest faced away from them.

Jon squeezed through a small gap between the dragon and the wall of the cave, and felt his heart start to pound as he walked around to where Drogon had laid his massive head. The dragon blinked at him, baring his teeth. Jon approached him slowly, and when Drogon made no move to protest he laid his gloved hand gently on the massive claw attached to the dragon's wing. He swallowed.

"Thank you," he said softly. Sharp intelligence shone out of those orange eyes, and he met them for a second time, feeling no fear. "I owe you a great debt." Then he slid his hand from the great beast's wing and ducked back through the gap.

All of the men were still staring, even as Ser Jorah's blood ran in rivulets on the stone. He was the only one unaffected by the giant creature at their back; of course, Jon supposed he had watched the three dragons grow up – had seen them when they were no bigger than cats. He was probably relatively used to them by now.

"Drogon," he said lamely, sitting down next to Beric and beginning to treat his wounds. "The oldest and biggest of Queen Daenerys' dragons." He looked up at the rest of his company. "We all owe him our lives."

They nodded solemnly. Tormund wore an expression of child-like glee. "So this is a dragon," he breathed. "Can I touch it?" he asked.

Jon raised an eyebrow. "It's probably wise to keep your hands to yourself, Giantsbane," he said quietly. "Besides, it's not _my_ permission you need to ask."

Tormund deflated, but he nodded in understanding. "I suppose that's fair."

"Nice of her to send us help," Gendry said as he peeled Jorah's torn coat from his waist. "The dragon queen, I mean," he clarified needlessly.

Jon didn't respond, only helped Beric get settled. When he was done he glanced over at Ser Jorah, whose wounds were the worst. "Alright, Mormont?" he inquired.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he grunted in return.

"Does it need to be cauterized?" Jon asked, sensing that the man was doing his best to remain stoic.

Jorah swallowed. "I'd like to try to avoid that," he said dryly. Jon nodded in agreement.

Cauterizing wounds was never fun.

The men began to talk amongst themselves, and soon they were mostly asleep, only Thoros and Clegane still awake and staring into the fire. Jon sighed and, feeling somewhat suffocated by the warmth of the fire and the steam of the hot springs, he went back outside.

He sat down a few feet from Drogon, watching the massive creature as it watched him in turn. Even from a few feet away, the heat of the large reptile kept him from getting too chilled.

Jon swallowed. "I don't like it when it gets too hot," he said quietly. "Or too cramped. I like the cold. I'm used to wide open spaces like this," he said, gesturing to the wilderness around them. "With the winds and snow." He looked out into the great whiteness and sighed wistfully. "It's bleak, but it's home, I suppose. The North." His lips quirked. "I imagine it's strange for you."

The dragon snorted, and Jon was silent after that, closing his eyes and listening to the howling wind and Drogon's deep breaths. Soon he began to doze, and only vaguely felt a large warm tail wrap around his body. Flushed with heat, he fell asleep.

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oooo

"Watch to your right, Mormont," Jon warned quietly as they crept through the woods. "They rarely come in ones."

They stared at the dead man in front of them as they moved forward cautiously. The reanimated body twitched, unsure of whether to run or attack. It was mostly intact, with mutilated flesh hanging from the stump of one of its arms. Blue eyes shifted from left to right.

A shadow passed overhead, and Drogon made a quiet noise of warning in his throat. Suddenly Thoros was set upon by a skeleton that appeared through the trees, and Mormont fought off a third one – and Jon saw his chance. He and Tormund lunged, and Jon wrestled the wight's rusted blade from its hand as Tormund pinned it down with his weight. Gendry was instantly at their side, pulling a coiled rope from his pack. They grasped it, and set to work binding it as best they could as it wriggled and snapped at them with blunt, rotting teeth.

"Don't wrap the rope too close to its mouth," Tormund instructed. "It'll chew right through it if it takes it a year."

When they were finished, the wight lay twitching and moaning on the snow, bound tightly with rope. It snarled at them, unable to move, and Jon looked to the sky, feeling the great pit of dread in his stomach lighten.

They were only a mile from the gate at Eastwatch. There was a marker on the tree to his left, a crude carving of a crow.

"Let's get out of here," he breathed. "We best not linger too long."

He, Tormund, Gendry, and the Hound, as the least wounded of the group, heaved the creature to its feet, and trudged with it through the snow, their breaths coming in short, harsh pants that puffed out clouds of steam in the frigid air.

Jon looked up as they reached the gate, and Drogon flew over the wall as the giant metal door began to lift. They rushed inside, and Ser Davos and a group of crows met them, pulling a cart with a metal cage.

Jon sighed in relief as the door slammed shut behind him, and when the wight was carefully secured in its pen he leaned heavily against the wall, his entire body aching.

"Enjoy your vacation?" Ser Davos said shortly, smiling ruefully.

"Gods," he said, looking around at the group of men. "It's a nightmare out there, Davos. We're damned lucky to have made it out alive."

"I admit, the odds of all of you coming back alive were not in your favor," Davos said. They started to walk tiredly towards the inner gate.

"The odds of _any_ of us coming back alive weren't in our favor," Clegane grunted harshly. "And if it weren't for that big nasty dragon, we would all be sporting blue eyes."

Jon grinned, feeling relief flood through him. They'd done it. They'd done the impossible.

"I saw it fly overhead a few days ago," Ser Davos said, his eyes bright with excitement. He got that way when he talked about dragons. "I suppose we owe the queen quite a bit of gratitude."

"I'm going to send her a raven," Jon said quietly, squinting as they stepped out into the square at Eastwatch; despite the cloud cover, the sunlight was almost blinding.

"Start preparing for our trip back south," he said, scanning the skies for Drogon and sighing in disappointment when a hawk wheeled overhead. "We leave in two days."

oooo

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 **Thanks for reading! Please review if you have a moment to do so.**

 _ **She Rises**_ **will be updated this Thursday.**


	3. Chapter 3

**So this weeks episode was extremely gratifying – lots of awesome dragon action, a hint of romance, great CGI, an epic rescue, some funny dialogue amongst the magnificent seven – but I was also pretty disappointed. I know that they are trying to wrap up the show, but it's a little frustrating to all of a sudden have everything happen so fast. Like, this is a series that has spanned over a matter of years, where it takes weeks to travel anywhere and months for dragons to show any discernable growth. But all of a sudden in this season they've really just shoved things forward, and it's kind of disappointing. I'm a huge fan of instant gratification, but instant gratification just isn't Game of Thrones' style, and so it's kind of jarring.**

 **Also, whatever this Winterfell subplot is with Arya and Sansa just needs to stop. They've both gotten annoying. Most of the political intrigue in GoT has now paved the way for the classic "good vs. evil" plotline. There's still Cersei and her machinations down in King's Landing, but up North there are too many things to worry about for that kind of bullshit. And Arya and Sansa are smarter than this – or at least should be.**

 **Don't get me wrong. I love Game of Thrones in any form. It's always amazing, no matter what. When the Dothraki and Drogon attacked the Lannister and Tarly forces in the Reach, I squealed in delight. When Arya and Sansa and Bran were reunited, I sighed in relief. When Jon first met Daenerys, I couldn't stop thinking about the tension in their interactions. I still get ridiculously excited when a new episode airs.**

 **Perhaps it's just different, and because of that we are all trying to adjust. I just hope that the last few episodes do the series in its entirety justice.**

 **So let's get on with it! I got a wonderful review from Timelord2162, saying that he/she liked my writing better than the scriptwriters for the actual show, and to be proud of that. You have no idea how much it means to hear that. I feel incredibly honored, so thank you. That being said, keep in mind that this is my first GoT fanfic – I'm not used to writing the characters like I am for HP and TVD. It's not quite as familiar. I hope that I'm able to stay away from getting too OOC, and that I can make the characters dynamic and interesting, but I make no promises.**

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oooo

Jon wasn't expecting it when Arya showed up at the gates of Eastwatch, her horse and Ghost her only companions. When they opened the gates, she rode in, surveying her drab surroundings with calculating grey eyes. He was already bearing down upon her when she dismounted, and he caught her in the circle of his arms, squeezing her tightly. Her small hands went to his back, and he heard her sigh against his shoulder.

"Hello, brother," she said quietly.

He pulled back from her and looked into her face. Her lips quirked up in a smile that spoke of terrible things. There was a spark of warmth in her eyes, however, and he smiled, swiping her cheek with his gloved thumb.

He hugged her a second time. "Arya," he murmured into her hair. "I've missed you."

This time her smile was wider, and more of the Arya from his childhood showed through the tough exterior that she wore like armor. He squeezed her shoulders.

He could tell she was different. Vastly different. But that was okay, he decided. Sansa was different. He was different. From what he'd read in Sansa's letter, Bran was undoubtedly different. None of them were the same people they'd been when they'd parted so many years ago.

"What are you doing here?" he asked with a frown. "And why did you come alone? It's not safe, Arya."

"You're going back down to Dragonstone," she said, cocking her head; she avoided his second statement. "I'd like to go, too." She blinked. "I was starting to get restless in Winterfell," she said, her voice low and solemn. "It's…not the same place that I remember."

"And you're not the same girl," he said with a bittersweet smile. She looked mildly surprised. "That's okay," he said casually. "It suits Sansa. It's different for her, too, but it suits her nonetheless. You and I…perhaps not so much." He cupped his hand around her neck, her hair brushing against his skin. He looked deep into her eyes. "I'm not going to ask where you've been, and what you've done. It's only my business if you make it my business. But I'm not going to pry."

Her face slackened. "I'm not sure sharing our stories would do either of us any good," she said softly. "I just want to be with you. Here, and now, exactly as we are. I don't want to pretend that everything is the same," she continued, "but I've missed you, Jon." She exhaled shakily, and he saw tears fill her eyes. "Out of everyone, I've missed you the most."

She blinked her tears away, and then laid her forehead on his shoulder. He stroked the back of her head, uncaring of their audience.

"Are you cold?" he asked gently.

"No," she murmured against his cloak. "But I am hungry."

He kissed the top of her head. "I can help with that." He smiled. "Come inside. There are a few men I'd like you to meet. They've become part of my family, so by extension they're your family, too."

"That sounds nice," she breathed. "I still don't care for the company of other girls. I imagine I'll fit right in here," she said with a smirk, gesturing to the decidedly male population of Eastwatch.

"Aye," he replied, amused. "I imagine you will."

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oooo

"I suppose I got here just in time," she said the next day, sitting astride her dappled grey gelding and looking entirely too comfortable in men's clothing and weapons, a dagger at one hip and Needle at the other. Then again, he supposed that she wasn't exactly a lady. She would look ridiculous in a dress. "You certainly don't waste time."

"Unfortunately, there's none to waste," Jon replied, staring at her with serious eyes. "Are you sure you want to come with us?" he asked again. "It's nearly a fortnight by ship. It's a bigger one than we had before, but you won't get your own quarters."

She smiled. "I like boats," she mused. "And I'm sure I can fashion some clever curtains." She snorted. "You forget that I've been living and traveling with mostly men since I left King's Landing," she said casually. "Not a whole lot of privacy to be had there."

Jon felt a familial protectiveness steal over him, and he frowned. She chuckled at his expression, and the sound was harsh against his ears.

"Trust me, brother," she said with a grin. "I can handle myself." She looked through the open gates. "Ghost and I are going to scout ahead," she drawled, squinting up at the overcast sky. "Don't drag your feet."

Then she cantered off, and Ghost nuzzled his leg briefly before trotting off after her. He didn't even have a chance to tell her to be careful.

"You're just going to let her go like that?" Ser Davos said, pulling his horse up next to Jon's.

He didn't have a chance to respond before the Hound pulled up on the other side of Davos. "Can't tame that one," he grunted. "Try to tell her what to do and you're more likely to get a beheading than obedience."

"That little sword wouldn't be able to slice through a man's neck, Clegane," Beric said, pulling up behind them.

"Nah," the Hound agreed. "You're right." He paused. "She would just saw through it."

Dendarrion looked curious, and Davos looked disturbed. Jon did not comment, staring through the gates; Arya and Ghost had disappeared, as invisible and ungraspable as the wind.

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oooo

It took them two days to reach their ship. Rather than leave straight from Eastwatch's harbor and risk running into ice, they traveled south, and embarked on a ship where the waters were just warm enough that they didn't have to worry about it. During the trip Arya would mostly ride next to him or go off on her own, scouting the woods and fields ahead. Sometimes she would exchange a few cool words with Gendry, but never initiated the contact. To his surprise, she spent a good amount of time riding beside the Hound. Besides Jon, he was the only one she seemed to relax around. He supposed it wasn't too strange, considering she'd spent the better part of a year traveling under his protection; but Clegane had told him about their parting, and how ruthless she'd been, leaving him there to die.

He thought perhaps that she had gone through a transformation since then. Had become less hotheaded and more detached. Jon wasn't sure how he felt about it.

In the end, it didn't matter. She was his sister, and he loved her, despite the occasional gleam of monstrosity that he saw in her eyes.

But did they not all have demons? Had they not all been warped in some way?

On the ship, she also gravitated towards Clegane when she wasn't with Jon. She would sometimes participate in the games the men would play, rolling dice and shuffling cards with a mischievous grin. She would help with the boat when asked, but did not glare and whine about gender inequality like she would have as a twelve-year-old. She merely watched, observed, lending a helping hand when she was needed but otherwise keeping out of the men's affairs.

The coldness of the outer shell she'd developed made him sad, but he was thankful that she was not usually like that with _him._ They had been close as children because he had always been accepting of her wild nature; and that had not changed. Theirs was a relationship built upon both love and mutual respect. So she opened up more to him when they were alone with each other, and he started to get to know the woman she had become. And he did so with as little judgment as he could.

Sometimes she went down into the hold of the ship, and just stared at the captured wight as she sharpened her blades.

When they passed the peninsula of Widow's Watch, Drogon reappeared, flying over their ship and then wheeling back towards land. He did this often over the next couple of weeks, several times a day, and it made Jon smile appreciatively.

Daenerys' black dragon was widely known to be the most volatile of the bunch; Jon imagined that the fact that he and his crew had Drogon's protection was extremely rare, and it made his heart swell with foolish pride to think that one of the somewhat aloof queen's children had deemed them important enough to defend.

And Jon was no fool. Daenerys had a certain amount of control over her dragons, simply because they respected and loved her as family; but she did not command them. She was their mother, not their master. Jon imagined that Daenerys had probably asked Drogon to fly north of the Wall to help them, but he was almost certain that the black dragon had stuck around for their journey south of his own accord.

He enjoyed those times, because for a brief moment Arya would turn her face up to the sky, her expression opening up as she stared in wonder at the black dragon that soared above them, his wings turning purplish crimson when hit with the sun's bright rays. Jon forgot about Drogon and merely watched his sister; something tender and hopeful shifting deep in his heart as he saw glimpses of the carefree girl he'd once taught to ride a horse.

As they drew nearer to Dragonstone, Jon became more and more anxious. Arya, as intuitive as ever, picked up on it, and approached him near the bow of the ship one day to ask about it.

"What troubles you?" she asked quietly, her voice swept away by the wind so only he could hear.

He sighed, and leaned over the rail. "There's still so much to do," he said softly. "This is a huge step, having the proof that might unite the kingdoms to fight together – but the logistics of such a thing aren't simple, by any stretch. And if we defeat the Night King and his army, what happens after that?" he said, chewing his lip. "There will still be three rulers in Westeros. Do we go back to fighting each other?"

"Ah, the game of thrones," Arya said bitterly. "I'm afraid that will never go away. Especially if people like Cersei are still playing." He sighed in agreement, and she twisted to look at him, her face impassive. "There's something else that's making you anxious," she said, her eyes alight with curiosity. "Something personal."

He gritted his teeth, dispelling the image of Daenerys from his mind. "This _is_ personal, Arya."

"Then why are you blushing?" she countered with a sly smirk.

Jon turned to face her as well, narrowing his eyes. "It's nothing," he said quietly. "Don't push it."

She hummed and cocked her head. "You like her," she murmured, the smugness in her eyes fading into something else: something curious and conniving. "This dragon queen."

He glared at her, pulling at the neck of his jerkin as he flushed hot all of a sudden. "I like her just fine," he said gruffly, trying to steer the conversation to another path. "We get on fairly well. At least as well as two monarchs can, considering the circumstances."

"Does she fancy you back?" she inquired, ignoring his attempt at deflection. Sharp intelligence shone from that granite stare – a color that was only a few shades of grey lighter than his own.

"It doesn't matter," he said harshly. "There's no time for that," repeating the words that he'd said to Ser Davos weeks before. "And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'm going to tie you to your horse and send you back to Winterfell to deal with Sansa."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I won't tell," she said lowly. "I merely like to know what makes my most beloved brother so restless. Now that you're King in the North, you can't afford to be restless. Sometimes it's good to talk about things – air out your concerns so they don't weigh so heavy in your heart."

He deflated, and closed his eyes, realizing that she was right. "Sometimes, I forget how we've all grown. You've become wise."

"Not wise," she said, reaching for his hand and intertwining their fingers together as she turned to face forward once again. She contemplated, and shrugged one shoulder. "Wis _er,_ perhaps. But mostly just different." She swallowed. "Experience is a bitter teacher. It doesn't coddle. Things that mattered to me as a child don't matter anymore, and I can look upon the world with sad realism." She smirked. "I wouldn't call that wisdom. I would call it cynicism. It is what it is. The past can't be changed, and reality is a cold slap to the face."

He sighed. He wanted to argue with her, to encourage her, to add something positive to her statement and lift her spirits. But she was not a child anymore, so he settled for the truth instead. "Yes," he breathed in agreement. "It is." He stared out at the water, his eyes catching the movement of a pod of porpoises as they came up to breathe, moving together as one. "But sometimes the clouds lift long enough for something else to shine through," he said softly. "Something good."

"The briefness of those moments make them all the more special," she said with a nod. She squeezed his hand in a tight grip, and he squeezed back, taking note of the calluses on her palm that matched his.

They stood like that for a while, as brother and sister, contemplating the world and everything in it. Then she pulled back and left, silent as a ghost.

Almost on cue, Ghost came to stand at his side, whining briefly as he had done since he'd gotten on the boat. The wolf lay down next to Jon, and his head still came up to Jon's hip. He tangled his fingers in his direwolf's thick white fur.

Don't worry, boy," he said wearily, leaning against the rail. "It won't be much longer."

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 **Ta da. Sorry, no Jon/Dany action in this one, either. But they meet next chapter.**

 **Thanks for your reviews!**


	4. Chapter 4

**So angelcat70 made a very interesting point in her review in response to my thoughts about episode six in the author's note last chapter. She thinks that Arya and Sansa might be putting on a show for Littlefinger to trick him. That didn't occur to me, but now that I'm thinking about it, it seems like a really awesome plot idea. I hope her prediction turns out to be true. That would make the obnoxious subplot worth it. Bravo, angelcat70, for creative thinking!**

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This time there were more of them. There were two ships, and each one was twice as large as the last one had been. Daenerys looked out to sea, watching with trepidation as the ships with no sigil lowered their anchors and man and beast alike were ferried to shore.

She clenched the letter from Jon Snow in her fist. It was short and to the point, much like the bastard king himself: _My men and I owe you and Drogon our lives. There are no words that do our gratitude justice._

Then he'd written, _We make for Dragonstone in two days. Pleased be advised that we have a company of forty men and their horses._

It was signed simply _Jon Snow,_ and for some reason this irritated her and amused her in equal measure. He proclaimed to be a king – he should _act_ like a king.

Then again, it endeared her to him. Here was a king who would never wear a crown, who would never think to stand back on a hill and watch as his army went to battle. Here was a king who counted his men's lives as more important than his own, who wouldn't hesitate to take an arrow for a foot soldier he'd never met. Here was a king who'd helped his men push a boat back out to sea, heedless of how the ocean soaked his clothes when he could be sitting dry _in_ the boat. Here was a king that had placed his trust in his _sister_ to care for their home while he dared to make a trip to meet a queen he'd never met – who had traveled with a small group to an island he'd known was home to three dragons.

He was foolish and reckless to risk his own life time and again, throwing caution to the wind because he refused to send someone else into a dangerous situation when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. He had volunteered for a mission unfit for a king, venturing into the most dangerous place on earth simply because with him, they'd had a better chance at success. He was practical and wise, but that all faded when his passion surged to life. He was annoyingly humble about himself, but had looked into her eyes several times whilst being frustratingly obstinate on his people's behalf.

He had gained Drogon's respect and – dare she say it – affection, which had before been reserved only for her. And he was so fucking noble that she couldn't even find it in herself to be jealous.

She crumpled the paper in her palm and shoved it down into the pocket of her dress. She'd liked looking at the spiky, hurried handwriting, sharp and full of edges and completely appropriate for the man who had written it. Because, for the first time ever, she had a _crush._

With Drogo, she had been wedded to him the day after she'd met him; her love for him had developed afterwards. With Daario, he had approached her with an offer, and he had been physically attractive to her, even more so because of the confidence with which he'd spoken. She had come to like and appreciate him, and the sex had been mostly gratifying.

But she had not started to develop feelings for either of them before they were abruptly just _there._ And she had never kept a letter after she'd read it. But she still had Snow's, and every time she looked at the words he'd written her heart pounded in her chest.

Stupid. It was stupid. When he got to shore she would realize that her feelings for him weren't real, that they had blown out of proportion in his absence and were based almost entirely upon her attraction to his physical form. He was handsome, of course, and she hadn't been with a man in nearly a year, since she'd been captured by the Dothraki and then had cut Daario loose as a liability. So it was natural that her body would respond in such a way, and the sudden dearth of such a pleasing physique and face when he'd left had unbalanced her.

Yes. That was it. She exhaled, and smiled to herself as she watched the boats move steadily towards the beach.

But when she saw the back of his head when he rowed to shore, her hands shook. And she cursed him within her mind as she stood stock still on the beach next to Tyrion and Missandei and watched with increasing trepidation as he drew nearer and nearer.

He rowed right alongside his men, of course, three on either side; Ser Davos was among them, and she smiled fondly. Two horses stood in the middle, one white and one black, seemingly unruffled. Except, one wasn't a horse…

When the white creature lowered its head to nose at Jon Snow's hair, she sucked in a breath. She had once heard absurd rumors that the Starks walked around freely with giant wolves at their sides. She'd thought them false, then – perhaps not wanting to consider it, jealous that others had been able to form relationships with creatures just as wild and fierce as her dragons. But there was no mistaking the beast on the boat for anything other than what it was.

When the Northern king's boat hit the shallows, he was the first to jump out, wading to the prow as the rest of his men slid over the sides. He turned and grabbed the sodden rope on the end of the boat, bracing its weight on his shoulder and turning to pull the wooden vessel forward as the rest of the men pushed. It slid up onto the sand, and the snow-white direwolf immediately rushed onto dry land, running off and disappearing behind an outcropping of rocks. None of them seemed concerned, and Snow gently guided the black horse off the boat and onto the wet sand. He patted its neck and murmured something to it, and then strode over to where another boat was landing, wading back into the cold water to help pull them up onto the beach.

He did this with every single raft that landed, giving men orders here and there but mostly just helping where he was needed. Finally the seventh boat landed, and with this one came a girl – slender and graceful, dressed conspicuously in a man's clothes and leading a grey gelding from the boat with a simple hand on his nose.

And then her heart sank down to her stomach, because Snow touched the girl familiarly on her neck as she passed, and leaned down to whisper something to her. Then he kissed her tenderly on the head, and she smiled and moved past him, her horse following her faithfully up onto the beach.

A hot burst of envy replaced the disappointment that had crept into her heart, and her nostrils flared as she narrowed her eyes. She was already insulted that Snow hadn't immediately come to greet her, and this worsened her mood.

But then she watched two of his men pat him on the shoulder in thankful camaraderie, and she struggled to hold on to that feeling of insult when he nodded at them, and then took a bundle from the last straggler and helped the man wade through the waves without losing his balance. The man wore an eye-patch and a grimace, and when he came ashore she noticed heavy bandaging around his leg.

Most of the men started to gather up the horses and the supplies, and Jon looked around to survey everything before his eyes found her. His expression did something strange – something that she couldn't quite put a finger on. He approached, and her pulse pounded out a harsh rhythm at her neck and wrists. Ser Davos followed behind him, and a colossal redheaded man strode forward as well. The _girl_ trailed behind almost as an afterthought, her face inscrutable as her eyes roved, cataloguing her surroundings in a discerning way that had Daenerys stiffening ever so slightly.

Suddenly she was face to face with the King of the North, and she looked up at him with a tight smile, hating herself when her gaze caught on his shoulders and lips before meeting his dark stare.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice rough and low like she'd remembered it. "You're well?" he inquired, inclining his head respectfully.

"I am," she answered, reigning in her tone so her words did not quiver. Nervousness made her palms sweaty, and she folded them before her. "As I hope you are." She could practically hear Tyrion roll his eyes from behind her as she remained cool and aloof.

Snow didn't seem to notice, just squinted up to the sky and observed his surroundings. "Better now that I'm back on solid land," he said with an amused twitch of his lips. He looked back down at her, and she got caught in his black stare, unable to tear her eyes away. He swallowed. "I'd like to introduce you to my companions," he said after a momentary pause. "Ser Davos you know, of course," he said, gesturing to the man who bowed respectfully from the waist. "This is my second, Tormund Giantsbane," he continued, clapping the huge man on the shoulder familiarly as the redhead merely nodded at her. "And this," he said, beckoning the girl forward to put a gentle hand on her shoulder, "is my youngest sister, Arya."

Daenerys blinked. Shame and embarrassment filled the empty spaces in her mind that envy had suddenly fled. She smiled a true genuine smile, and she held out her hand, and the petite girl hesitated only momentarily before resting her own on Daenerys' open palm.

She covered the back of the dark haired girl's hand with her other palm, and held her cold little fingers between hers, looking at the girl earnestly. "I was so glad to hear that you'd found your way back home," she said with a warm smile. "And I'm glad you decided to accompany your brother on his journey back to Dragonstone. It's an honor to meet you, Lady Stark."

The young woman's silver eyes widened slightly in surprise, and she met Daenerys' gaze fearlessly. "The honor is mine, Your Grace." Something in her tone suggested that the words were genuinely spoken, but that she was surprised that they were genuinely spoken. It pleased Daenerys; she had a feeling that Arya Stark was not as trusting as her brother. "And it's just Arya, please," she said plainly. "The title of Lady Stark now belongs to my sister."

Daenerys nodded, and tightened her hold on the girl's hand gently before she released it. "Please," she said graciously. "Join us in the castle." She gestured to the Northmen in the King's party, who were now being assisted by the Dothraki while tending to the boats and supplies. "The Dothraki always prefer to stay in their tents," she said to Snow as she turned, "so the barracks are empty and set up for your men. I've had rooms prepared for you three," she nodded to the three men, "and I will have my maids set up something for Lady St – for Arya." She glanced to the girl, and Arya gave her a slight smile, her eyes guarded but pleased.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Snow said, shaking Tyrion's hand and leaving the dwarf to introduce himself to Tormund and reintroduce himself to Arya. He fell into step beside her. "And what of our weapons?"

She smiled softly, looking forward towards the castle as she felt his eyes on her.

 _He stares at you._

"It's interesting, isn't it?" she said quietly. "How trust can build even during absence." She looked at him askance. "I'm not worried," she added.

He nodded, and a smile played around his usually solemn mouth. "You've no reason to be," he reassured. "All of the men that accompanied me are people I've fought beside and served with before," he said, squinting into the sun. "I know and trust every one of them." He looked sideways at her, and she squirmed under his unfathomable gaze. "They wouldn't be here if I didn't."

She nodded; flattered that he would put such thought into something that could have easily been arranged for him by somebody else. She saw the way the men looked at their leader – like he hung the moon. They looked at him with admiration and deep trust, as if they knew they could count on him to have their backs. She'd heard quite a lot about how fair their king was, and she imagined that they loved him so much because he was very thoughtful about justice, and knew what it truly meant. She imagined that they felt comfortable, assured that they would be heard by an impartial ear and treated with respect.

That was the sort of security Jon Snow provided his people. It was one of many reasons why he was so adored by the people of the North.

"So, your mission was successful," she said, changing the subject to a more serious one.

He twisted, and she stopped and turned with him. He pointed to a cage that was being set carefully onto a cart, covered in black canvas. "The sun seems to agitate it," he said in explanation. "Best get it somewhere cold and dark." He looked up at the castle. "This seems like a place that might have scary dungeons. That would be ideal."

Her lips turned up at the corners in amusement. "They _are_ scary," she confirmed good-naturedly.

"I'll be setting six men to guard the cell, and two to stand at the entrance to the dungeons," he said conversationally.

"That many?" she asked with a frown.

He nodded. "You can never be too careful with wights," he answered seriously as they started to move forward again. "They're not human anymore. They have some basic sense of self-preservation, but don't have much in the way of reason. They're simply programmed to kill any living thing on sight, and they'll do almost anything to accomplish that goal."

She shivered, squeezing her hands tighter together in front of her. She felt cold, all of a sudden. "When do I get to see it?"

"I'd wait until we get it settled in its cell," he said. He grunted. "Safer that way."

She nodded. "I am…glad," she began, lifting her head aloofly, "that you emerged unscathed."

"Not unscathed," he said, rubbing his side with a wince. He wore only a grey tunic and a fitted black leather jerkin, and no armor – hadn't wanted to be weighed down in the water, she supposed – and her eyes were drawn to his obliques. She swallowed as the fabric pulled tight against his muscles, emphasizing his frame. His shoulders and back were broad, but tapered sharply down at his waist to his hips. "But alive," he finished. "That's what matters."

"You were wounded?" she asked with a frown.

"We all were," he said with a raised eyebrow. "You don't go north of the Wall and get away without shedding blood." He paused. "Ser Jorah got the worst of it," he said quietly, his eyes suddenly tender. "That's why he isn't with us. He'll come later, when he's strong enough to travel."

"I see," she said, displeased. Displeased that Jorah hadn't returned, and displeased with herself for being so distracted by Jon Snow that she hadn't even noticed. "But your wounds weren't bad?"

He shrugged, and they began to walk again. "Just a couple of broken ribs and a few scratches," he answered nonchalantly. "I've had worse. Pain becomes relative after a time."

A few scratches. He removed his gloves, and she saw an ugly gash than ran across the top of his hand and disappeared under his sleeve. The flesh surrounding it was mottled and bruised, and she noticed a few crude stitches where the skin had been split between his ring finger and middle finger. "Those look horrible," she said, boldly catching his elbow and lifting his arm up to better look at it. She grimaced.

He stiffened briefly, discomfort flashing across his face, but then relaxed. "I'm afraid I'm not the best seamstress," he said, his voice tinged with humor. "That was always Sansa's forte." He paused, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I assume you sent word to the Lannisters?" he asked quietly, his eyes hardening slightly.

She nodded. "As soon as I saw your ships I had a raven prepared," she replied. "Although I haven't written the letter yet. I've started to wonder if it might be better to have them come to us."

Jon frowned. "Cersei won't leave King's Landing," he said with surety. "From what I know of Jaime, he's a reasonable man. If he can't be persuaded to sail across the bay directly, perhaps he can be convinced to meet us somewhere inland."

She nodded. "That's reasonable." She cocked her head. "I'll have Tyrion write it." Her lips quirked. "Sometimes I'm not very good at using diplomatic speech."

"You're a conqueror," Jon said easily, uncannily repeating the words that Daario had once said to her on the road back to Mereen. "Not so much a politician." He grinned, and it was so quick that she thought she might have imagined it. Her heart skipped. "You were wise to choose Tyrion as your Hand. He knows a thing or two about the great game."

"Yes," she said softly. "I am lucky to have him."

"The way I see it, he's pretty lucky to have you, too," he said kindly. "From what I know of Lord Tyrion, he wouldn't pledge his loyalty to someone who didn't deserve it. In the past, he's shown little respect for the establishment, so to speak – but he respects you." His eyes shifted to glance at her briefly. "It's a rare person that Tyrion Lannister admires. I'm glad he's found someone worth following."

She was not usually prone to blushing, but she felt heat flush her cheeks, and her jaw dropped open ever so slightly before she remembered to close it. "I…" She swallowed. "Thank you," she said, inclining her head in thanks. "And I imagine it's a rare person that Jon Snow respects," she said, turning his words around. "I am honored."

He smiled, and squinted up at the sun. "You're in a position of power, but you're still kind," he said frankly. "In my experiences with nobles, that's a rare thing."

"But aren't you a noble?" she asked, feeling her hands tremble at his compliments. They didn't even feel like compliments, when he said them. It was as if he was simply stating fact. It was not an attempt at flattery, and therefore she was flattered all the more.

He snorted. His smile was a touch bitter. "I've never been a noble," he countered. "I was always the bastard growing up, then I was a crow, then I was a wildling…it was only later that I fell into a leadership role. I was made Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and then they k – " He stopped abruptly, and cleared his throat. "And then a lot of things happened in quick succession. Sansa found her way to Castle Black, and then together we took back Winterfell. And then the whole kingship thing just…fell into my lap." He swallowed, and his eyes shifted sideways. "But I was never a noble. Being a king doesn't change that. Nobility is a blood thing."

"Nobility is an attitude thing," she corrected imperiously, frustrated with his cynical words and how he was holding something back from her. He'd cut himself off before he'd revealed something…but what was it? What was he hiding? What happened to him as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? "Blood is inconsequential to being a good leader," she continued, sniffing. "When I first endeavored to take back the Iron Throne, it was solely because it was my birthright," she said. "Then it became less about birthright and more about ruling fairly." She looked up and sideways at him, and caught his eyes. "And now it has nothing at all to do with blood. I will make a good ruler," she said honestly. "The 'rightful heir to the Iron Throne' thing doesn't matter much anymore – at least to me."

"You will make a good ruler," he confirmed with a nod. "As long as you hold your friends close. It's important to keep your roots firmly in the ground."

"Is that how you've stayed grounded?" she asked.

"Aye," he confirmed. "Shared history breeds loyalty. I would choose Tormund or Ser Davos over some fancy lord any day, money or no money. They're as much family to me as Arya and Sansa and Bran."

She smiled. "I understand the sentiment. Tyrion, Jorah and Missandei have become my family."

"And you chose them," he said. "You can't choose your blood relations. So it's more special when non-relatives become family."

"Does that mean you trust Tormund and Ser Davos more than you do Sansa and Arya and Bran?" she asked quietly. Arya was following them at a leisurely pace, speaking in soft tones to Tyrion, who looked utterly fascinated with her presence.

He looked somewhat pained, and she regretted asking. She did not backtrack, however; with a man like Jon Snow, there was no point.

"In many ways, yes," he answered heavily. "Tormund and Ser Davos and the current Lord Commander of Castle Black, my friend Edd – we've saved each others' lives countless times. We've seen a lot together, been through a lot." He looked down at the sand, clasping his hands behind his back. "Arya and I were close growing up," he continued, "but she's changed. I've changed. Sansa and I weren't ever close, until recently – and we're nothing alike. She spent a lot of time in King's Landing; I've never been. I've only ever had to deal with the people of the North, who are generally pretty straightforward." A noise of amusement escaped her throat unbidden, and he smiled, but did not comment on it. He was self-aware enough to know that he was one of the most straightforward of the lot. "She had to live in a pit of vipers for years, and had to adjust. She's smart. Knows how to play the game. We don't always agree on things."

"You don't seem like the manipulative type," she commented.

"No," he agreed. "If you want to be treated with respect and honesty, you have to treat others with respect and honesty."

"That is delightfully naïve," she drawled, charmed by his words and wishing they were true.

He did not seem offended. "That's how it works more often than not, up in the North," he countered. "Naïve down here, certainly," he said, gesturing to their surroundings. "Up there, lies and manipulation don't work so well. Any disloyalty is met with the headsman's axe."

"That sounds brutal," she said with a grimace.

"Brutal places make for brutal people," he said quietly.

She narrowed her eyes. "You aren't that way."

He did not meet her eyes. "Perhaps," he returned quietly.

She stared at him, taking in the scar that curved around his right eye and the one that split around his left. _Perhaps,_ he'd said. _Perhaps not,_ she thought.

They walked quietly for the rest of the way up to the castle, climbing the stairs in companionable silence. When they got to the top, she was breathing hard; Jon Snow looked completely unfazed. Glancing behind her, she noticed that Ser Davos, Missandei and Tyrion were winded as well, but Tormund and Arya just looked around with calculating eyes.

 _Northmen are tough as nails,_ her Hand had said.

"I'll leave you to get settled," she said, turning and smiling at them all when they gathered in front of the doors. "There will be a feast this evening in the great hall. Until then, the castle and my men are at your disposal."

They all nodded, and Jon Snow gave her a brief, unreadable smile. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said. "Your hospitality is most appreciated." Then he turned from her and spoke in low words to Tormund, who nodded and went back over to the stairs to supervise the rest of the men.

"All right, sister?" he murmured, just barely loud enough that Daenerys could hear.

Arya put a hand on his arm, and they walked away together. "A little warm," she replied smartly.

She heard him chuckle, and was possessed with a burning need to see his face when he did so – she clenched her hands in frustration.

When they passed through the front doors, she looked over at Ser Davos, who was watching her with pale eyes. "My Lady," he said with a short bow.

"Ser Davos," she said in return.

He smiled, and then took his leave as well, following in the footsteps of his king.

Then she was alone with Missandei and Tyrion. The dwarf looked up at her, his expression open. "This is excellent," he said, hope in his voice. "You've cemented Jon Snow as an ally. As a friend, even," he said with a smile. "Snow is unflinchingly honest. He wouldn't talk to you so casually if he didn't trust you."

"Casually?" Missandei interjected, raising her eyebrow in something that looked like skeptical amusement. "Forgive me, Lord Tyrion, but nothing about that man is casual."

Her Hand sighed. "No, I suppose not. However, everything is relative." He gave a tight smile. "What shall I write to my brother?"

Pushing Jon Snow as far to the back of her mind as she was able (not far), she walked with her two advisors slowly to the map room. She cast her eyes about as they went, but saw no trace of broad shoulders and black hair except for the few Dothraki she passed.

She hid her disappointment carefully.

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 **Please review!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Once again, thank you all for your reviews!**

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Jon sighed, leaning back in his chair as Ser Davos brushed shaving soap over his face. He inhaled; it reminded him on his father, and of Robb. It smelled like the North: pine trees covered in fresh snow, brisk winds from the sea.

He was nervous. He'd been nervous since he'd set foot on the ship. He was more nervous than he had been up beyond the wall. At least the North was familiar to him. At least the _dead_ were familiar to him. But pretty queens with purplish-blue eyes were _not_ familiar, and he hated the constant knot in his stomach that had settled upon seeing her again.

"This is stupid," Arya said bluntly from behind him, sitting casually on his bed and twirling her dagger around in her hand. She grasped a flask of ale in the other. "You shouldn't have to look all pretty like all those stupid lords and ladies in King's Landing."

He rolled his eyes. Ser Davos replied for him. "Don't worry too much, Lady Arya," his advisor said. "I'm just trimming his beard and clipping his hair a bit so he doesn't look like a savage. But he doesn't own any perfume, and he doesn't have any colors in his wardrobe besides black, grey and brown." He grunted. "Even if I wanted to turn him into some simpering southern lord, he wouldn't let me. And he would look ridiculous."

"Good," Arya said, sipping from her ale. "He's the King in the North. North being the operative word." She paused. "You shouldn't have to change anything about yourself to please some silly southern queen – "

"First of all," he interrupted harshly, trying not to sweat anxiously as Davos took scissors to his hair, "this isn't about her. I'm not doing this to impress anyone. But it's been a long time since I've shaved, or cut my hair, or even bathed. And now that I'm trying to cement alliances, I need to loosen up a bit. That starts with looking a little less like someone who just crawled out of a hole for the first time in years." He glared at her as his advisor wiped the foam from his face with a wet cloth. "Secondly, I thought you _liked_ this particular silly southern queen."

Arya looked at him with an inscrutable expression. Her grey eyes were flat and unreadable. "I do like her," she said mildly. "So far." Her jaw clenched. "That looks good," she said, gesturing to his face with her dagger. "And it's nice to see some curl back in your hair," she continued with a small smile. "You should start leaving it down again. Makes you look like father." She hopped off his bed gracefully, sheathing her knife. "You look handsome. I'm going to find someone to spar with."

"You're going to go take a bath," Jon corrected, feeling his ears burn. _You're a pretty lad,_ Ygritte had once teased. _Girls would claw each other's eyes out to get naked with you._ He pushed her from his mind. _"Then_ you can go spar with someone – as long as you don't end up rolling in the mud."

"You going to make me wear a dress, too?" she said through clenched teeth.

He smiled up at her. "Don't be ridiculous," he bit back. "You wouldn't even know how to put one on."

The slow, genuine grin that spread across her face was a sweet reward.

* * *

oooo

"Do you think…?"

Missandei stood behind a column, holding her breath.

"What?" the red-haired giant returned, stripping himself of his coat and sitting on a bench near his companions. There was a man with a burned face and a man with an eye-patch, and the man who had spoken was young and handsome, with striking blue eyes. They sat together, drinking ale and warming themselves by the fire in the small mess hall.

"What Gendry's trying to awkwardly ask is if you think Snow and the dragon queen have fucked," the man with the burns asked crudely.

Tormund laughed, and Missandei felt irritation swell in her heart. She did not reveal her presence, however. She had stumbled upon them by accident, and would take the opportunity to gather what information she could. She didn't know this Jon Snow and his men. She didn't trust them. Not with her Khaleesi.

"Of course they haven't, Clegane," Tormund answered, taking a long drought of his drink. Some of it dribbled into his beard. "Snow's too honorable for that. He wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole."

"She's beautiful," the man with the eye-patch said. "And her attraction to him is plain to see. Why ever not?"

Tormund shrugged. "He's got too many things on his mind, Dendarrion," he said roughly. "Too much to worry about. And he's absolutely oblivious. He'd never think to notice that somebody as lofty as the Targaryen queen would want him. As a bastard, he probably wouldn't think himself worthy." He sighed into his drink. "Dumb fuck."

"I've never seen him with a girl, or even talk about one," the man named Clegane mused. "Which doesn't make sense, because his hair alone somehow manages to be prettier than the bitch queen's entire face."

It took a moment to realize that "the bitch queen" did not refer to her own queen, and Missandei sighed, relaxing minutely. She'd heard all about Cersei Lannister.

"Maybe he doesn't _like_ girls," Gendry said with a shrug.

Tormund snorted. "He likes girls," he denied easily. "He had a woman, once upon a time."

Missandei listened with sharp ears.

"Really?" Dendarrion said, leaning forward.

"Aye," the redhead said solemnly. "She died."

Her heart twanged, and she frowned. She imagined losing Grey Worm; the prospect was terrible, and filled her heart with dread.

Dendarrion's one good eye fell to the table. "Sorry to hear it."

"She was like a sister to me," Tormund continued. "I grew up with her." His frown faded suddenly, and he grinned wickedly. "She was the envy of all the wildling women, taking up with Jon Snow. And she would torment them, telling them stories…"

"What kind of stories?" Gendry asked with a furrowed brow.

"Oh, you know: 'Jon Snow this,' 'Jon Snow that.'" He chuckled. "She loved to throw it in their faces. Apparently he did this thing with his mouth…" He trailed off, looking puzzled. "I tried it once. I don't think it worked for me like it did for him. Still. We had a good laugh, seeing his discomfort. He didn't know Ygritte had been bragging on him, and so he had no idea why dozens of women were always chasing after him. Amused the rest of us to no end."

"Your women do that?" Gendry asked confusedly. "They're aggressive like that?"

The wildling snorted. "They're free folk, Waters," he said with a fond smile. "Free women do whatever the fuck they want. And they love a man with a big cock," he said, crudely grabbing his crotch in a way that made the men laugh and had Missandei casting her eyes to the ground. "A pretty boy like Snow didn't stand a chance." He took a long swallow of his ale. "He only ever had eyes for her, though," he murmured lowly. "Ygritte."

"And there haven't been any since then?" Dendarrion said with a frown.

"After she died in his arms, he never looked at another woman," Tormund said. "She was his first, and last." He paused. "I know he loved her for a long time. He hasn't talked about her in a while. His love for her may have died with him. I don't know. What I do know is that the dragon queen, however beautiful she might be, isn't worthy. No one's good enough for Jon Snow."

Clegane snorted. "Gods, you sound like you're half in love with him yourself."

Tormund didn't get upset, as Missandei suspected he would; as most men would. He merely grunted. "I've got my eye on a woman, Hound," he combatted. "But I do love Snow. He's the best man I've ever met in my whole life, and he's become a brother to me." He set down his empty flagon, and stood. "And anyone who doesn't realize it is a bloody fool."

"He's not a saint," the Hound said roughly.

Tormund laughed before he turned. "No. I've seen Jon Snow beat a man's face bloody with his bare hands. He's no saint. But he's still better than all the people on this green earth combined." He stiffened. "And if this southern queen tries to force him to bend the knee, or hurts him in any way, she'll have thousands of free folk, crows, and Northmen to contend with." His eyebrows drew down determinedly. "Dragons or no dragons."

When he moved towards her hiding place by the door, Missandei fled.

* * *

oooo

Daenerys sat down at the high table, a place for Tyrion at her right and Arya Stark at her left. She'd sat Jon Snow on the other side of his sister on purpose. He irritated her.

Missandei had come to her earlier, looking uncomfortable – and when Daenerys had asked, her friend had told her of the conversation she'd overheard earlier. She'd stammered and blushed so much that Daenerys had to coax the details from her, and now she couldn't stop thinking about the dark-haired king who was rumored to be a gifted lover.

That didn't matter. None of it mattered. She would marry him, if she had to. But she would not sit here and fantasize about him like some dreamy-eyed twat.

She wished Missandei had kept that conversation to herself.

Still, despite the general inappropriateness of the discussion her translator had eavesdropped on, it contained some useful information. Giantsbane's opinions of Snow were lofty, and from what she'd learned of wildlings it was not typical of them to revere someone in such a manner.

Then again, Ser Davos had told Tyrion some of what his king had done for the free folk. It was not as much of a stretch, considering how he'd saved them all. And he hadn't only saved them – he'd then taken them under his wing, and they had fought for him because of it. They still fought for him because of it.

She supposed it was like her Unsullied. They fought for her because they wanted to. Because she had liberated them and had given them a choice. Jon Snow had liberated the free folk in a similar manner, had saved their people from extinction and given them hope for a better future.

She'd said to Missandei, _No one is that perfect._ She'd been burning hot with resentment and irritation and desire, and she was angry, so angry, that any man could be so good, so worthy of his title.

Her confidant had shrugged. _From what I heard, I think he has a temper._ She had paused then, and frowned. _There was something else – something that didn't make sense to me. Perhaps the nuances of Westerosi escaped me in this instance._

 _What was it?_ she'd asked impatiently.

 _They said that his love for his woman died with him._

 _They probably meant that it died with her,_ Daenerys had said, feeling something resonate within her mind. Something had pulled at the corners of her brain, and she was still chasing it; something that almost made sense, but that she couldn't put her finger on.

 _Of course, Your Grace,_ her advisor had said with a relieved smile. _I probably just misheard._

She looked down at the men that were starting to fill the room – Northmen that looked at her with curiosity and respect. But they did not look at her in admiration as they did for their king, who had entered the room and was striding purposefully towards the high table, his eyes flickering from her, to Tyrion, to Missandei, and back. He nodded cordially.

Then one of his men stood, and raised a hand to catch his attention. The King in the North approached him, and the man simply handed him a scrap of parchment. Snow read it quickly, and then his face broke into a smile, and he briefly embraced the soldier. When he pulled away, the man with the wolf sigil on his shirt was beaming. They exchanged a few other words, and then parted, Jon continuing his journey towards the high table.

The smile slowly fell from his face as he got closer, but his expression was still pleasant. Arya followed behind him with her hands folded behind her back. Her gait was smooth and predatory, and Daenerys wondered what her story was, what her skills were, and how good she was with the weapons she always wore at her hips. Her quick, clever eyes darted around the room. She still wore breeches and a tunic and boots, but her tunic was a lovely crimson color and she had bathed and braided her hair back at the temples.

Her brother had also bathed, it seemed, and Daenerys watched him with appraising eyes. His hair was unbound and still damp, curlier than she had seen it before. His scarred face was clean and his facial hair neat, and she found her eyes flickering down to take in newly exposed skin. It was stupid, that seeing the dip of his neck and collarbone should make her feel light headed, but the lack of a high-necked breastplate or heavy coat pleased her inordinately.

He looked nice. Still the same – black hair, black shirt, black trousers, black black black – but his tunic was secured snugly by a wide leather belt, and a cloak without a dead animal attached to it rested loosely on his shoulders. His sword rested on his hip, and she felt kind of bad that she had taken it away from him the last time he was here; compared to how he moved now, he'd looked positively awkward without it, she realized.

She felt irrationally good that she'd let Missandei talk her into wearing a dress this evening. It was cool outside, but the great hall was warm with bodies and the fire that crackled in the hearth. She felt pretty in the gauzy violet fabric, and secretly hoped it made him just as uncomfortable as his appearance made her.

"Jon Snow," she said with a tight smile. "Arya. Please, join us."

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said, climbing the dais to take his seat beside his sister. "You honor us with your hospitality. I'm sure my men are happy to have warm food and comfortable beds to stay in tonight. You've been very gracious."

"I'm glad that it pleases you," she said equally as formally. "Please, eat and drink your fill. I know firsthand how difficult it is to travel by ship. I imagine it was nice to be able to sit in a bathtub."

"It beats a cold wet cloth any day, to be sure," he said, his lips quirking up. "It feels good to not be sticky with sea spray anymore."

Daenerys turned to Arya. "I was wondering," she said with a curious smile, "why you seemed so uncomfortable with the idea of a lady's maid? Verina has served me for a long time."

Arya cleared her throat uncomfortably just as her brother sniggered. Daenerys leaned forward to look at him, and upon her stare he sobered quickly. Still his eyes were warm with humor.

"Shut up, Jon," Arya muttered, glaring at her brother. Her quicksilver eyes softened when she looked at Daenerys. "I didn't mean to offend, Your Grace," she said, her lips pulling tight with discomfort. "I've been on my own for a long time. Verina was very nice, and she speaks good Westerosi, but it made me uncomfortable having someone else in the room. I wouldn't feel comfortable with my own sister helping me bathe and dress. Please, it's nothing personal."

Daenerys bowed her head. "There was no offense taken, Arya, don't worry. I just want to make sure you're comfortable here."

Jon Snow laughed again, and she turned to watch as his face transformed. He was handsome as a brooding, serious man; he was handsome in a different way when he smiled and laughed. "The only way my sister is ever comfortable, Your Grace, is if she's wearing trousers, armed to the teeth, on the back of a horse with a direwolf at her side."

"Preferably being pelted by snow and wind," Arya finished good-naturedly. She smiled, but shot her brother a playful glare. "You know, I always liked you best growing up because you never tried to stifle me or turn me into something I wasn't. But now you're becoming annoying."

"It's payback," Jon said, looking out over the crowd of his men and sipping from his chalice of wine. "For all the times you pestered me as a child. You used to steal my weapons, as I recall."

"Yes, well," Arya said with a roll of her eyes, "that was years ago. We're both supposed to have grown up since then."

Suddenly Arya and Jon both looked up, and then they shared a glance. Arya made to stand, but Jon shook his head minutely, and got to his feet. "I'll get him," he said. "Please excuse me, Your Grace. I'll be back in a moment."

Daenerys simply nodded, unable to respond intelligibly before he was standing and striding briskly from the table.

She looked at Arya expectantly. The younger girl cleared her throat. "Ghost," she said. "He's howling at the gates. Our ears have adjusted to such things over the years."

"Ghost is the direwolf?" Daenerys asked curiously, her eyes flickering up as Jon Snow slipped through the doors of the great hall, his hand on the hilt of his sword out of habit.

"Aye," Arya said, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into the juices that surrounded the chicken on her plate. "He's a bit of a loner. Sweet, though."

Her lips turned up, and she met the famous Stark silver gaze. "Seems appropriate."

Arya smiled with her teeth, but there was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "Yes," she said simply. "Very."

Daenerys looked away from that argent gaze before she could give anything away. "So," she said casually. "Where have you been over the past few years, when your brother was manning the wall?" _When your family was torn apart and butchered._ The words went unspoken, but they hung in the air all the same.

"A lot of places," Arya said, her tone deceptively light. "King's Landing, Harrenhal, the Eyrie, Braavos." She paused, and her eyes glazed. "I ran until no one remembered my face, and my name was just a whisper associated with death."

"Anonymity can be kind," Daenerys said gently.

"It can," Arya said with a nod. "But it can't last forever."

"No," Daenerys breathed. "I imagine not."

Just then Jon came back through the doors, his hair and skin damp. She hadn't even been aware that it was raining. She saw a streak of white in the hallway behind him, and her eyes searched the wolf out, but he did not enter the hall.

"I don't think the Dothraki care for my direwolf," Snow said, sitting back down next to his sister. He immediately began to eat again. She tried not to stare at how his curls stuck to his damp skin, or how raindrops ran in rivulets down his neck. "You'd think that with three fire-breathing dragons in their midst they would be used to dangerous things with teeth."

"By now, they know my dragons," Daenerys said. "Your direwolf is a stranger to them. And dogs are scarce with the Dothraki. They don't have much use for them. I imagine many of them haven't even seen a dog before, much less a wolf the size of one of their ponies."

"I remember when he was a pup," Arya said with a fond smile. "He was the runt of the litter." She snorted. "Cute little thing. Used to like riding on your shoulder, when he was too small to keep up."

"Aye," Snow said, glancing sideways at his sister and smiling at her fondly. He sighed suddenly, and his shoulders tensed. "I'm going to run down to the dungeons and bring the men some food," he said, looking at the two women to his right as he filled his tray with meat and fruit. "Your Grace, it might be a good time for you to see the wight, if you're interested."

"Yes," she said with a sharp nod. She'd nearly forgotten. "Have you had enough to eat?" she asked as he began to stand.

"More than enough, thank you," he said with a smile.

All eyes followed them as they went. Tyrion and Missandei accompanied them, and Daenerys watched with curious eyes as Arya slipped away upon reaching the hallway, fading into the shadows like a specter. Tormund joined them, still gnawing away at a chicken bone. She might have thought it savage, once upon a time – but that was before she'd eaten the raw, bloody heart of a horse in front of dozens of Dothraki. It amused her when Missandei wouldn't meet the redhead's eyes, her cheeks tinged with pink.

She was charmed that Snow thought to carry the tray of food himself, and she walked next to him, glancing at him every few seconds as her eyes struggled to tear themselves away from his form.

Without his usual heavy clothing and the massive cloak that sat across his shoulders, she realized that his frame was much leaner than she'd thought originally. His shoulders were strong and rounded, and his back broad, but his waist and hips were narrow and his legs strong and lean. His palms were wide and his fingers strong; his hands were scarred all to hell, and the knuckles on the one without the stitches were bruised red and purple, but they were still good-looking hands. Capable hands.

 _And he's got a capable mouth too, if what Missandei said is true,_ her brain whispered. She scowled.

"You're displeased."

She was jolted from her thoughts when Jon murmured next to her, his black eyes flickering down to watch her from the side. "What?" she asked stupidly.

"I've offended you in some way," he continued, and she felt guilt settle in her heart. "You've been looking at me strangely all evening."

"I'm…sorry," she said with a swallow. "I'm just on edge. I'm not irritated with you in particular. I apologize if I've made you feel that way."

"I just want to make sure I haven't done anything to upset you," he said quietly. She was thankful for his discretion – Qhono strode ahead of them with a torch, and Missandei and Tyrion and Tormund followed behind at a distance, but she wouldn't care for any of them to overhear.

Because he was right. His very presence unbalanced her, and it made her testy and impatient. But she couldn't tell him why; she couldn't tell him that he made her heart beat faster, that he made her hands sweaty and her loins stir in a way that they hadn't done in a very long time.

Her lust for Jon Snow was an entirely different animal than her desire for Drogo or Daario had been. There was something mysterious about him that made her squirm uncomfortably – a darkness that settled around his shoulders like a cloak. He was a warrior, as her two previous lovers had been, but there was something bleak in his stare that Drogo and Daario had lacked. He was known for his victories on the battlefield, for his skills in combat and the passion with which he fought. But there was no pride in his eyes like she'd seen with other warriors. There was no swagger, no arrogance, just a quiet, tired confidence that made people look at him, that drew their eyes so that they had to fight to look away. And the triumph that was usually clear to see in a champion's eyes was missing; in its place was something shattered, haunted, desperate.

He had been through something. Something that wasn't common knowledge. Something private, secret, that writhed beneath his exterior like maggots within a corpse. It was something horrible, and she wanted to rip him open and draw it out like poison from a wound. She wanted to see it, see _him._ She walked only inches from him, but she felt like she was a world away.

"You haven't," she assured him quietly. "I'm sorry." Her lips quirked. "Perhaps I'm just frustrated," she said coyly.

His brows drew down as he read her tone. "Oh? What about?"

"I thought that I might get to see you in something other than black," she said, trying to lighten the mood and turn the conversation around so that he wouldn't figure her out. "Is this what constitutes as finery for you?" she said, gesturing to his outfit.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and for once that smile was directed at her, and she felt her stomach erupt into butterflies. "I thought this was what all lords and ladies wore for feasts down here in the south," he teased, plucking at his cloak. "Am I that far off?"

She giggled. _Giggled._ "We wear black to funerals here in the south, Lord Snow," she said. "Perhaps you could try for some blue?"

He looked puzzled, and she relished in the spark of humor in his eye. "Blue?" he scoffed. "What is this 'blue' you speak of?" He shook his head with a frown. "Sounds outlandish. I don't think so."

She laughed, and it was only when Qhono looked back at her with a smirk that she came back to herself. "Yes, well, you should talk to your seamstress."

"I don't have a seamstress," Snow said. "Unless you count my sister. And she knows better than to try to put me into some colorful silk number. Just as I know better than to try to get Arya to wear a dress."

"She seems very independent," she said with a fond smile. She liked Lady Arya. There was something about the girl that made her slightly uncomfortable, but she could see the intelligence in those sharp grey eyes, and could feel the deep love she had for her brother. And if anyone could appreciate a strong, smart woman with a good sense of family loyalty, it was Daenerys.

He grunted, and they came to stand in front of the door to the dungeons. "She's different," he said with a nod. "She's always been different." He cleared his throat when his men saluted him sharply, and then waved them off casually, and they relaxed, staring at him with tough, respectful gazes. Daenerys didn't think she would be able to live up North, she decided – if everyone were like Jon Snow and Arya Stark and their bannermen, it would be far too intense for her taste.

Qhono looked at Snow briefly before opening the door, and they followed the giant Dothraki down into the darkness.

When they got to the bottom, Daenerys shivered when she heard the soft scratching of something on stone. Jon walked over to his guards with the tray of food, and they thanked him, sitting down on the benches against the walls to partake of the meal he'd provided them.

"Hey Nieman," Jon said lowly to one of the men. Nieman stood beside his king, looking into his eyes with no fear. "How has it been?"

"Quiet," the young man said, leaning on his spear and staring into the cell opposite him. The cage from earlier had been pulled inside, and the rolling wagon it had been on was propped in the corner. The cage was still covered with a dark cloth. Daenerys' breath stuttered when she heard that scratching sound again, and a low, unearthly growl accompanied it.

"The queen would like to see," Jon said with a nod.

"As you wish, Your Grace," he said with a short bow.

Nieman grabbed the keys from the hook on the wall, and opened the cell door. The scraping and moaning from inside stopped abruptly when the door swung open, and Nieman stepped inside without a hint of fear. He grabbed the edge of the canvas, and Daenerys stepped forward closer to the cell bars as he tugged it off.

She felt a hand grasp the place where the wide straps of her dress crisscrossed against her back just as the canvas fluttered to the ground. She squeaked when that hand yanked her backwards, nearly tearing the fabric of her dress. She slammed back into Jon Snow's chest just as a bony hand thrust through the bars of the cage and through the bars of the cell, a foot from where her neck had just been.

It wouldn't have gotten her, and part of her was irritated at Snow's overreaction, but looking into the eyes of the creature before her she decided that overreaction was better than nothing at all.

It was hideous. It was evil, and terrible, and its blue eyes were sharp and wintery and revolting. It bared its teeth at her and screeched, and Nieman prodded it with the sharp end of his spear. It slammed against the bars of the cage, rattling it. She pressed herself further back into Jon Snow's body, and the only thing that broke through the haze of the horror of what was before her was the feeling of his chest rising and falling against her back as he breathed deep, unconcerned breaths.

His hand was still wrapped firmly around the fabric of her purple dress, his knuckles cool against her spine. She thought that she should pull away, turn around, glare at him for his lack of boundaries; but he smelled divine – like pine and salt and leather and horses – and his breath huffed out against the back of her head, and he felt safe and warm and comforting against her back.

"It's real," she breathed quietly.

"Yes," Snow said lowly from behind her, the rumble of his voice vibrating against the partially exposed expanse of her back. Qhono was staring at the creature in fearful fascination. Missandei looked like she was about to faint. Tyrion looked pained, as if on some level he had known it was true but hadn't wanted to believe it, and now that he was confronted with it he had no choice. Tormund looked completely unfazed, staring at the thing curiously whilst stripping every last bit of chicken from the leg bone in his giant hand.

"I mean, I believed you, after you showed me the drawings – and after Drogon left to help you – and after you arrived back earlier," she said quietly. "I didn't doubt that you were telling the truth. But…"

"But you can't truly know until you see," Jon finished for her, his voice soft and full of understanding. She was glad he could not see her face – she was afraid he would notice the shame in her eyes. "No one can."

"I should have," she countered, feeling angry with herself as the creature raged within its cage. "I have dragons. I shouldn't have doubted. If anyone should have believed it, it should've been me."

"You can't think like that," Jon replied. His hand unclenched from around her dress, and she felt it slide away, his fingers brushing her skin so lightly and so briefly that it might have been a dream. He shifted back imperceptibly, and she instantly missed the warmth of his body so close to hers.

"Snow is right," Tyrion murmured from beside her. "The human mind doesn't work that way. Unfortunately."

They were all silent for a moment, staring as the wight finally settled back down, growling at them like a cornered wolf and hunkering down in its cage, sitting back on its heels and watching them with an animalistic gaze. There was nothing human about it anymore, she decided – only the shape of it. Its eyes were inhuman, its movements were inhuman, the noises it made were inhuman.

"So," Tormund finally said, his tone jovial. "What are we voting on as the strangest creature at Dragonstone? We've got a wight, a direwolf, and three dragons." He paused and looked around at them. "Anyone?"

Daenerys couldn't help the smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth. She liked the giant redhead, despite his apparent lack of regard for her. "This one," she answered, nodding towards the cage. "Direwolves and dragons are natural-born creatures. Rare, and eccentric, but living, breathing beasts that eat and drink and breed like the rest of us." She shivered, and her arms crossed over her chest. She leaned backwards once more, and she concealed her pleasure when Snow didn't shift away from her again. The heat of his chest against her back and shoulders was intoxicating, and his smell filled her nostrils, paralyzing her. She looked at Nieman, who was watching her with cool, calculating brown eyes. "Thank you, Mister Nieman," she said with a nod. "You can cover it back up now. I'm not easily unsettled, but I'll admit, you're far braver than I am to risk getting so close to such a creature."

It seemed the man did not flatter so easily, but he nodded at her respectfully, his eyes wary. "Just doing my job, Your Grace," he said, throwing the canvas back over the hideous creature in its pen. "Snow?"

She felt Jon nod from behind her. "Get yourself something to eat, mate," he said as his man shut and locked the cell door. Daenerys swallowed when he reached past her to grasp Nieman's hand in a familiar way. "Fallon and his team will be down to relieve you in a couple of hours."

Nieman nodded, and Daenerys and the rest of them turned away. She kept her eyes ahead of her as she climbed back up the stairs, ignoring the part curious, part suspicious stares of the Northmen behind her. What was it about the people of the North that was so unsettling? Why did they all glare around with such mistrust?

 _My people won't accept a southern ruler,_ Snow had said a few weeks before, looking down at her with saddened eyes in the dim firelight of the dragonglass cave. _Not after all they've suffered._

Then again, perhaps they had their reasons, after all.

But how did one win the allegiance of such a people? How could a foreigner hope to earn their trust and love?

 _Marriage,_ her brain whispered slyly. _Tyrion is wise. He knows this land better than you – he knew that you wouldn't be able to win the North on your own. That's why he talked to Ser Davos about the idea of you marrying Jon Snow._

The prospect filled her with trepidation. She shoved it from her mind, suddenly feeling hot and uncomfortable as she felt the eyes of the man in question on her back.

When they reached the top of the stairs, she turned to him. "This Nieman – you are close to him?"

Jon frowned. "He's one of my lieutenants. I know him well enough."

"Earlier you spoke to a man in the great hall," she continued, pushing on. "He handed you a piece of parchment. What was it?"

He raised an eyebrow, and she knew from his look that he thought she was being nosy. Still, he answered. "Glan Gryer," he answered. "He received a raven shortly upon arrival. His wife had her first child, a son. It was a difficult pregnancy, but they're both alright."

The mention of pregnancy had something painful clenching in her stomach. "I'm glad to hear it," she said truthfully. "Do you always take such an interest in your men's lives?"

"My people are important to me," he said by way of answer. "I can't claim to know everything about all of them, but you tend to get to know them when you're fighting next to each other on the field, or crammed together in the same barracks, or sharing food around a campfire." He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. "You forget, I haven't always been King in the North. Before that I was just a soldier. I may have had a lord for a father, but I was slaving away in the armory and the mess hall and the stables alongside every other new recruit at Castle Black. And I rode next to my brothers-in-arms when we took back Winterfell – although the real victory there belongs to Sansa, I'm afraid." He shrugged. "Still. I've never lived in a great tower, or had people to tend to my hearth or help me dress or saddle my horse for me. Even my lord father and my brother Robb, a proper-born Stark, did a lot of those things for themselves half the time. I'm sure many people look at me and don't see a real king," he continued easily. "And perhaps I'm not, at least according to what kings are like in the eyes of most. But I'd rather be down in the mud and aware of what's going on than be up high and dry in some castle and remain ignorant." He sighed heavily. "My father once said that you should know the men who follow you and let _them_ know _you_ – that you shouldn't let your men die for a stranger. He also said that you can't lead your people until you've suffered with them."

"Your father sounds wise," she said, smiling at his words.

"In the North, yes," he returned. "Northern wisdom got him killed in King's Landing."

She sighed, feeling sad. "I'm sorry for what happened to him," she said, folding her hands and walking next to him. "I used to hate Ned Stark. I used to hate everyone here that had conspired to kill my family and overthrow the crown. But then I learned the truth, and I felt so foolish," she admitted softly. "Varys told me that your father was one of the only truly honorable men in Westeros. I hate what my father did to your family. I hate what Robert Baratheon did to my family. And I hate that Eddard Stark got caught in the middle."

"He was always the best of us," Jon said quietly. "I appreciate your view. I know it's not easy to let go of old hurts and misdeeds."

" _You_ do it well," she said with a smile.

"I don't have the countenance or the energy for holding grudges," he said with a self-deprecating sigh. "Especially when things are so far in the past, and have been apologized for. The only person I still hold ill will toward is Cersei. She's still caught up in her games and machinations, and the rest of us are moving on. It's tiresome. Even Jaime is trying to get out of it – but she just can't let it go. And she is unable to feel remorse for the things she's done."

"I worry about her," Daenerys said quietly, feeling a tired sort of anger burn low in her stomach. "I'm afraid that our plan won't work. That she'll stay safely holed up in King's Landing with her army while the rest of us go to war. That she won't care."

"It's certainly a possibility," he warned. "She's become unstable as of late. Blowing up the Sept and losing her last child hit her hard." He shook his head sadly. "I hate that I feel pity for her."

"You're a better person than I," she returned, clenching her teeth. "The constraints of my compassion are a bit tighter than yours, it seems."

"No," he denied. "Perhaps just different."

As she reeled from his kind words, she saw a flash of white out of the corner of her eye and turned. Ghost padded down a perpendicular hallway on silent paws, his tongue lolling out in a way that had her lips twitching. "Will you introduce me to your friend?" she asked, gesturing to the massive white wolf.

"Ghost," Jon said, lifting his hand to rest it on his companion's fuzzy nose when the creature approached. The wolf snuffled into his palm affectionately. "Hey, boy."

He stepped aside, and Daenerys met the pinkish red eyes of the giant beast that towered over her. She raised her hand, and he bared his teeth briefly, as Drogon had once done with Snow. Then he leaned forward tentatively and licked the tips of her fingers, his nose cold against her skin.

"He's handsome," she said with a smile. "I'd heard years ago that each of the Stark children wandered around with the giant wolves that were the sigil of their house. I hadn't believed it at the time. But he's beautiful."

Ghost snuffed at her open palm, and then pulled back and turned to Jon. The Northern king patted him on the neck, and then the direwolf trotted off again, strange and wild and lonely like his master.

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 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Y'all are all wonderful, as usual. :)**

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The next morning, Jon found himself on his balcony, watching from above as Ghost traversed the fields below, sniffing at the rocks and grass before disappearing amongst the cliffs. He inhaled deeply, clutching his robe tighter around him when a sudden breeze kicked up, blowing in a salty chill from the sea. The sun had just risen over the water, casting a pale, bleak light over the island.

He turned to go back inside, intent on getting ready, and froze.

"Hello." He swallowed as Rhaegal shifted, curled up on a wide ledge of the castle next to Jon's balcony. The huge dragon watched Jon with bright peridot eyes, seemingly just as surprised to see him. He blinked, and then leaned forward, snaking his head over the edge of the balcony to sniff at Jon, his nose only a foot away from Jon's chest.

He remained still, his body slowly relaxing in the presence of the dragon that was still a stranger to him. He'd come to feel almost entirely safe around Drogon, now that he'd had plenty of experience with the black dragon, but Rhaegal and Viserion he'd only ever seen from a distance, diving into the sea to catch fish and porpoises and sea lions.

Rhaegal was the smallest of the three, about two-thirds the size of Drogon but just five feet shorter than Viserion. He had a slender head and a soft gaze, and he stared at Jon curiously, showing no signs of aggression. He closed the distance between them, and touched Jon's abdomen briefly with his snout before turning away. He looked at Jon again one last time before he slid from his perch, his grassy scales scraping across the dark stone with a quiet rasp before he snapped open his wings and soared away, gliding close to the ground before diving over a cliff and plunging into the sea.

Jon watched him go, mesmerized by the grace of the beautiful creature and the way the morning sunlight turned his bright green scales yellow. Then he turned and went back inside, unable to help the smile that spread across his face.

After he dressed, he headed down to the training yard, intent on getting a few exercises in. He smiled when he saw Arya already there, sitting on a stool and sharpening Needle with a whetstone.

"Care to join me, brother?" she asked as he descended the stairs, not looking up from what she was doing.

"I don't know," he said teasingly, his mood somehow bolstered by his brief interaction with Rhaegal a few minutes earlier. "I'd hate to mark up such a pretty face." He winked, knowing that it would infuriate her.

She sneered. "You're assuming that you'd land any blows," she said, narrowing her eyes challengingly. She stood. "Besides, your face is far prettier than mine. And I would hate to ruin your artfully tousled hair."

He glared at her for the dig at his appearance. "You're on," he said, unbuckling Longclaw from his waist and picking up a wooden quarterstaff that was leaning against a pile. She did the same, setting Needle aside and removing the belt with her dagger from around her narrow hips.

"Just be warned," she said with a mocking smile, "I know how you fight. I've seen you do it many times before. You've never seen me."

"I'll try to be careful," he said genuinely, noticing the ease with which she handled the weapon. "But really," he said with a smirk, twirling the blunt wood deftly between his hands, weighing it and letting his palms adjust. She merely stood there, watching him with guarded eyes. "I don't want to leave any bruises on such fair skin. What would Gendry think?"

Her eyes widened imperceptibly, and then she launched herself at him, bringing her quarterstaff down hard onto his.

He laughed, grinning and parrying her forceful attack with a lazy flick of his hands. She whirled away, leaning forward and watching him with sharp eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," she hissed lowly, attacking again, her movements swift and fluid.

Once again, he parried, and leaned to the side, sweeping his staff down and around to rap playfully against her shin. She scowled. "You've gotten better," she said grudgingly.

"It's been years, Arya," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Of course I've gotten better. As have you." He nodded at her, indicating her stance and the way she bounced on her toes. "Nice."

This time it was he who attacked first, careful not to go easy on her. "Your footwork is perfect," he complimented, swinging around to avoid her staff as she twirled it dexterously. "And I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, little sister. You didn't meet him at Eastwatch."

"No," she bit out harshly. She hissed when he landed a blow across her knuckles, causing her to let go of her weapon. She didn't miss a beat; merely let it drop to the ground, ducking underneath his staff to punch him hard in the cheek. He stumbled backwards, shocked at the force behind her blow, but dropped to one knee and thrust his staff up at her. She dodged it only barely, swooping down to pick up her weapon and slamming it against his with an almighty _crack._

"We met when we escaped King's Landing. Both recruited for the Night's Watch." She bared her teeth. "We were like family, and then he left me, and I never saw him again until Eastwatch."

"He gawks after you like a lovesick fool," Jon mocked, throwing her off with a shove and going at her again. Strike, parry, strike, block, parry, parry, strike, block.

"He does not," she said hotly, fire burning in her eyes as she leapt at him. He avoided her, and managed to swing his staff up to bash into her chin.

She flew backwards. He grimaced as she landed hard on her back. He strode over, and leaned down, offering a hand. She took it, and he hauled her to her feet.

"I imagine you don't often let your emotions get the better of you in a fight," he said appraisingly. "You're far more skilled than most soldiers I know. Which means that whatever is going on with Gendry is bothering you, and you need to put your history to rest."

Her nostrils flared, but her eyes softened. "You're right," she said, her jaw ticking. "But right now I don't have the presence of mind for it."

"Then push it from your head, and focus," he said, brushing her shoulders off and leaning back down to pick his staff up off the ground. "Don't get distracted. Fight me again, and this time beat me. I know you can. I see the way your feet dance." She picked up her own weapon, and tossed her hair back. "Ready?"

"Yes," she answered. Love and gratitude shone from her eyes, and he smiled at her.

"Good. Again."

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Arya bent at the waist and leaned against her knees, sweat soaking through her clothes.

Jon really was the best living swordsman in Westeros – at least when it came to his technique; she imagined the Hound or the Mountain might beat him on sheer strength alone. She had gotten a few hits in – and was proud of this, because he respected her too much to go easy on her – but he had still trounced her time and again.

He was a good instructor, adding to her already extensive knowledge on individual combat. She'd missed this – missed his tutelage, missed his patience and his acceptance.

"I think maybe both of us have had enough," Jon said, breathing hard. He graciously accepted a canteen from Beric Dondarrion, and gulped it down before tossing it to her.

She drank heavily, then wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve. They had drawn quite a crowd, and had been sparring for well over an hour now, moving from quarterstaffs to wooden swords to fists and back to quarterstaffs again. She very purposefully did not look at Gendry, who was leaning over the railing of the walkway above, watching her with his pretty blue eyes.

She hated his eyes.

She suddenly saw a head of silvery blonde hair behind Jon, and hid her wicked smile. "One more," she said, dropping her staff and water skin and picking her wooden sword up once again.

He nodded, and exchanged his weapon as well. Arya twirled hers once, twice, and then lunged, striking like a snake.

As usual, he countered easily, and they began to dance around each other. She got one bump in on his thigh – even if she'd been using a real sword, it wouldn't have been hard enough to cut through his leather guard. Then he rushed her, and before she knew it her sword was knocked out of her hand and the blunt end of his rested against her jugular.

She grinned. "Well done, brother mine," she said playfully.

He threw his sword down onto the ground, and chucked her under the chin. "You're excellent, Arya," he complimented, looking extraordinarily pleased. "Father would be proud. Ser Roderick would be scratching his head. Lady Catelyn would be fuming."

She chuckled, and let her eyes flicker briefly over to where Queen Daenerys stood, watching Jon with a calculating, admiring gaze.

Arya smirked. Her brother was one of the finest looking men she'd ever laid eyes on, especially when he had a sword in hand and when sweat beaded across the part of his chest that was made visible because of the unbound laces at his neck. He'd shed his outer layer long ago, only wearing a tunic up top and trousers with a leather guard down below, and his shirt stuck becomingly to his skin as he breathed deeply, shaking drops of sweat from his curly, unbound hair.

The pretty southern queen didn't stand a fucking chance.

Arya had observed her closely since they'd arrived yesterday – had seen how her periwinkle eyes followed her brother across the room, her gaze lingering on his shoulders and hips and hands. It tickled her. Jon was historically oblivious to women, and almost completely unaware (or maybe just uncaring) of how physically pleasing he was to the eye.

"Can you imagine the look on Maester Luwin's face?" she said with a quick grin.

He threw back his head and laughed. "Do you remember the time he caught you hoarding a pile of arrows in your room?"

"Gods, don't remind me," she said gleefully. She took another swig of water, and tossed the skin to her brother. "Care for a bite to eat?"

"I am a bit peckish," he said with a twist of his lips. "You've worked me hard this morning. Gave me a run for my money."

"Don't exaggerate," she said with a scoff. "You're one of the best swordsmen on this continent, if not _the_ best, and you know it."

"Ser Jaime – "

"Lost his hand," Arya finished, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"I still wouldn't want to fight him," he grumbled, picking up his belt and scabbard and throwing the cloak Sansa had made for him across his shoulders.

"You're modest." Daenerys and Tyrion stepped up behind Jon, and he whirled around, looking startled, his hand going to the pommel of his sword out of habit.

"Your Grace," he choked out, stepping backwards and looking like a spooked deer.

"You're being modest, Jon Snow," the blonde beauty repeated, looking striking in a black dress and crimson cloak. Arya liked that the queen wore pants beneath her dress – or was it a long tunic? Either way, Arya could appreciate the practicality.

"Arrogance whilst fighting is foolish, and liable to get you killed," he returned, looking uncomfortable. "I'm good with a sword, aye, but there's always someone better."

Daenerys smiled in skeptical amusement. "If you say so," she said smoothly, looking pleased.

"We were just about to go to the mess hall to scrounge something up for breakfast, Your Grace," Arya piped up, enjoying the way her brother shifted nervously on his feet. "You would honor us with your presence. And you, Lord Tyrion," she added, nodding respectfully to the dwarf.

She liked the queen's Hand. She'd only met him briefly years before, when he'd accompanied his family to Winterfell. Now she was all grown, and was better able to appreciate his intelligence. She liked a person with a quick wit.

"I should enjoy the company," Tyrion said with a smile, looking at her with sharp green eyes that seemed to miss very little. "My Queen?"

Daenerys nodded. "Of course," she said, slipping her arm easily into Arya's elbow in a familiar way that would have had her stiffening in displeasure had it been most anyone else.

She still didn't like girls. But Daenerys Targaryen was an impressive person, and Arya was no fool – marriage to Jon would be extremely advantageous to the dragon queen. And it would do Jon quite a few favors, as well.

And they liked each other. That was what mattered most. Arya still had a lot of observing to do when it came to the silver-haired stunner, but the queen was shaping up to be all right, so far. No one was good enough for her Jon. No one would _ever_ be good enough. But she longed to see her brother happy, and she longed to see peace restored to the seven kingdoms, and she thought this might be a good way to achieve both.

 _Peace,_ she thought tiredly. _As if there is such a thing, really._ She shoved her cynicism to the side. Peace was a relative term, she supposed. No dead armies breathing down your neck? Check. No evil despot sitting on the Iron Throne? Check. No soldiers cutting each other down on the battlefield? Check. That was good enough for her. Peace was not having thousands of people dying daily to appease squabbling lords.

Suddenly a horn sounded, and Arya froze in her tracks. Daenerys' grip tightened around her elbow, and then she pulled away, narrowing her eyes. Jon acted immediately, bounding up the stairs to look out from in between the parapets, his hand going to shield his vision against the bright morning sun.

"A Lannister ship," Jon said, his voice tight. Arya sidled up next to him, and felt Tyrion and the queen move up behind them. She fixed her eyes on the large red sail that stood bright against the sparkling sea.

She said nothing, only moved aside to let Daenerys slide up beside Jon. "That was quick."

Tyrion looked worried. "I only sent that raven yesterday afternoon," he said, his tone sharp with something Arya couldn't identify. "That ship would have already left King's Landing days before my missive arrived." His nostrils flared.

"Which means?" Daenerys prompted impatiently.

Tyrion swallowed. "Which means something is wrong."

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 **Thanks for reading! Drop a line in the review box if you feel so inclined.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for all your love and support! Y'all are the best.**

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Jon sat, drumming his fingers against the map table in the conference room and trying hard not to stare at the beautiful woman who sat diagonally from him at the head of the table.

She was really starting to get under his skin. She had gotten under his skin from the beginning, if he were being honest, but she only continued to work her way deeper, settling in like an unwanted parasite.

He couldn't afford to be distracted right now. There was already so much on his mind – he didn't need torrid fantasies of the Mother of Dragons on top of everything.

His nostrils flared. He turned his head away from her, tearing his eyes from the soft curve of her cheek and the subtle swell of her chest beneath her clothes, and chose instead to stare at the newcomer to their group.

Jaime Lannister sat wearily at the other end of the table, looking more than a little uncomfortable. Daenerys and Tyrion were staring at him expectantly.

"She's…" The blond swallowed, looking utterly defeated. "She's passed beyond reason," he finally said quietly. "Even I can't get through to her now."

Daenerys' jaw clenched, and her eyes became hard. There was a spark of sadness in those periwinkle blue depths, however. "That is unfortunate."

Jaime said nothing in return, merely stared down at the painted stone table, running his fingers absently over Casterly Rock. His azure eyes were haunted. Tyrion looked at his brother mournfully from where he sat next to him, dejected.

"So our plan of showing her the truth backfired before it even began," Jon said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We were counting on that to bring her into the fold and to get her on our side in the war to come. We can't afford to fight Cersei whilst trying to hold off the army to the north – especially if she's lost her mind. And we don't need a repeat of the Sept of Baelor." He paused. "She has to be eliminated. Quietly, privately, without a fight. Because we need control of King's Landing and its army if we're going to focus our efforts at the Wall."

Daenerys cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Ser Jaime," she said softly. "But he's right."

The Kingslayer nodded, looking pained. "I know." He took a shuddering breath. "I'll do it."

"No."

Jon turned to his left, where Arya sat looking at Ser Jaime coldly. "Arya?" Jon inquired softly.

"I'll do it," she said.

Everyone at the table looked at her strangely, including Jon. Jaime's jaw ticked. "You must be joking," he said. Arya merely stared at him, and he looked troubled. "You wouldn't be able to get close to her. Not with Qyburn and the Mountain always hovering. Besides," he scoffed, some of his familiar arrogance returning to his expression. "It's not a job for a girl."

Arya gave him a chilling smile that froze the very blood in Jon's veins. "Tell me, Ser Jaime," she said softly. "How are the Freys, these days?"

Jaime frowned, and then his eyes widened. As quick as a snake, Arya tugged a small dagger from her sleeve and flung it across the room. Everyone at the table jerked in surprise. The knife embedded itself in a wooden board painted with a map. Jon squinted – it had landed solidly on Riverrun, a dot no bigger than his thumb.

"A little poison goes a long way," Arya said casually, reaching for an apple from a pile of fruit in a basket on the table. She pulled another dagger from within her jerkin, and began to slice it. Jon watched her hands. "I almost killed you that night, you know," she said conversationally. "You were sitting right there – it would have been stupidly easy to slip some poison into your wine. You were oblivious, of course. Men never look twice at serving girls, unless they plan on fucking them. And everyone knows there's only one woman you've ever fucked, and it isn't any serving girl."

"Arya," Jon warned lowly, feeling disbelief course through his bloodstream.

"I'd have to torture Qyburn first, of course," she continued, her tone nonchalant and eerily detached. "I'd need to get the secret behind how he brought the Mountain back from the brink of death. There are easy, quiet ways to extract that sort of information. Then I would kill the Mountain, and then Cersei." She stared into Jaime's eyes as she took a bite out of a slice of apple, the crunch sounding loud and ominous in the suddenly quiet room.

Jaime looked extremely disturbed. "You're insane," he said, staring at her with trace amounts of fear in his gaze. "And it should be me."

"Perhaps," she countered smoothly. "I understand your desire to be the one to put your sister out of her misery. Unfortunately, you can't be trusted to follow through. Killing your twin sister? The woman you love? The mother of your children?" She clucked her tongue. "I think not."

Varys, who stood in the corner, stared at Arya with hooded eyes. "The Lady Arya has a point," he said smoothly, his voice betraying nothing.

Arya's eyes swept the room, lingering on Tyrion before sliding back to Jaime. She cocked her head. "I'll be quick about it," she said quietly, her eyes softening just a fraction. "It's more than she deserves, but I'll make it painless. You have my word."

Daenerys chose this moment to speak up, looking at Arya with a spark of panic. "All of the Freys?" she said, her voice tinged with a subtle amount of hysteria. "That was you?"

"They butchered my family," Arya said in casual explanation. "So I butchered them. Cut Black Walder and Lothar into little pieces and baked them into a pie for their lord father to eat," she said, taking another bite of her apple, "and then sliced Walder's neck open from ear to ear, just like they killed my mother. And then the rest of them got a bad batch of wine…" She shrugged. "A pity." There was no such pity in her voice.

Jon swallowed, and his eyes met Daenerys', who looked horrified. "Arya, that's enough," he said lowly, looking back to his sister and seeing a stranger instead.

She nodded and went quiet. The entire room sat in stunned silence for a moment, and then Tyrion spoke.

"How would you get into King's Landing?" the dwarf asked Arya. "How would you get into the Red Keep?"

Arya gave him a mild smile. "Leave that to me, Lord Tyrion," she said. Her eyes slid over to Daenerys. "Give me three days, tops, in the capital, Your Grace, and you'll have yourself a dead queen. With your permission, of course." The way she said it implied that she would be going whether she had the queen's permission or not.

Daenerys' eyes flashed impatiently. "It seems I have no better options," she said reluctantly, staring at Arya with fresh eyes.

"No," Arya confirmed with a nod. "Not really."

Jaime cleared his throat. "How will you do it?" he asked. Jon noticed the dark circles that stained the skin around his eyes.

"Madhorn powder," Arya said without hesitation. "In her wine before bed. She won't feel anything," she assured. "She just won't wake up."

Jaime blinked, and a solitary tear slipped from his eye to run down his cheek. "You swear it?"

"Yes," Arya said, looking the man boldly in the eye. "I'm not without mercy. She deserves to die a slow, hideous death, but for you, Ser Jaime, and you, Lord Tyrion, I will forgo my own desires. It will be swift and painless." She nodded. "You have my word."

The Kingslayer slumped down in his chair, leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. Jon felt for the man. He knew he shouldn't, after all Ser Jaime had done, but he did nonetheless.

"Would you all mind if I spoke to my brother in private?" Tyrion said, laying a hand on Jaime's shoulder.

Daenerys nodded reluctantly, looking unsettled, and they all stood. There was not a single smile among them.

As soon as they exited the room and the door shut behind them, Jon grabbed Arya's arm and pulled her aside. "What was that?" he hissed lowly, staring into his sister's Stark-grey eyes.

She tugged her arm from his grasp, and straightened her shirt. "You said that I wasn't the same girl," she replied coolly. "You were right. I'm not. I spent a year and a half training as an assassin in Braavos. Killing is what I do best." She narrowed her eyes. "And Cersei Lannister has been at the top of my list since Joffrey died."

"Your list?" Daenerys said from a few feet away, her hands folded in front of her stomach. She was watching Arya warily.

"The list of people I'm going to kill," Arya said matter-of-factly. "The people responsible for what happened to my family."

Daenerys nodded, and despite the disturbance in her eyes Jon thought he saw a spark of understanding, as well. "A revenge list."

"I prefer to think of it as justice, Your Grace," Arya said with a small smile. "When would you like me to leave?"

"Soon," Jon said, answering for her. He frowned, upset by what he'd learned. "There's no time to waste. I have no idea when or how the Night King will attack, but we need the southern armies with us when he does."

"Will you ride back over with Ser Jaime?" Daenerys asked, seemingly unbothered by his interruption.

"Lannister can't come with me," Arya said, eating the last slice of her apple. "He's a liability. You have to hold him here, and keep him from any ravens. He may yet change his mind." She paused. "Love is a funny thing."

Jon's nostrils flared. "You'll need help getting there," he said gruffly. "I'll send Ser Davos and Gendry – they know King's Landing better than anyone, and they might have valuable insight."

Arya nodded. "I'd like to leave tonight. It'll take us four days by ship, if we take a smaller, lightweight vessel – I'd like to arrange to arrive after the sun goes down. Better cover."

Daenerys nodded cautiously. Jon cleared his throat. "I'll have Ser Davos prepare the ship with provisions," he said.

His sister bowed her head in supplication. "I'm going to prepare. Excuse me, Your Grace."

She touched Jon lightly on the arm – in apology or reassurance, he wasn't sure – and slipped away, striding down the hallway purposefully until she turned the corner and vanished from view.

Varys stepped forward from the corner, where he'd been watching quietly. "Did you know?" he asked Jon.

"No," he said bitterly. "I had no idea. I knew she had changed – and trained with someone, as is evidenced by her weapons skills – but I didn't know the details." He let out a shaky breath. "She was always tough as a child – different. But I hardly thought she would grow up to become…this. An assassin." The word was sour on his tongue.

Varys hummed. "Interesting. When the Freys were found dead, I wondered. I looked into it, but the only thing I was able to glean was the phrase 'the North remembers.' Nothing else. There was no chatter."

"Arya's smart," Jon said softly. "She wanted to send a message, but she didn't want people looking for her in particular." He sighed. "I'm glad the Red Wedding was avenged. I just wish it hadn't been by my kid sister."

"A kid is exactly what she isn't, Jon Snow," Daenerys said with a raised eyebrow. "Should I be worried, knowing that I have an assassin in our midst?"

Jon shook his head. "No."

Daenerys nodded. Her face was smooth and unreadable, but he saw the glimmer of trust in her eyes, and traitorous warmth spread through his body. _No time for that, Snow,_ he chided internally. _Leave it._

"If you'll excuse me," he said to Daenerys and Varys, "I have work to do. I'll find you later."

They both nodded, and he turned from them with a curt nod and went in the same direction Arya had gone, desperate to get away from the pair of soft blue eyes that haunted his waking thoughts.

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 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**To guest angie b - you mentioned that you hate it when people use avenged/revenged incorrectly. My biggest pet peeve is when people say "I'm nauseous." To be nauseous is to cause _someone else_ nausea. "Nauseated" is the proper term. They're used interchangeably these days, and no one really cares anymore, but it still bugs the hell outta me. So I can relate to little things like that. Grammar is important, y'all!**

 **Here we go!**

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Daenerys watched him go with a heavy heart, her eyes drinking in the long line of his back until he turned the corner and vanished from her sight.

"If I may, Your Grace…"

Daenerys turned to Varys and nodded minutely.

"If Arya Stark is as skilled as she seems, it would be very beneficial to potentially employ her," the bald man said.

Her nostrils flared. "It would, yes – but she's a Stark. She's loyal to her family. Jon is her king; no amount of money will change that."

Varys merely looked at her, his brown eyes glittering with sharp intellect. She stiffened. "Not you too," she whined exasperatedly.

"I gather from your reaction that Tyrion has already brought up the idea of marriage," Varys said, folding his arms and beginning to walk with her.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, he mentioned it," she said dryly.

"Now that the Freys are dead and Edmure Tully, Arya's uncle, has retaken Riverrun, the Riverlands have declared for House Stark. The Vale, now ruled by Arya's cousin Robin, has also declared for the North." He paused. "That's over half the land in Westeros, and a third of its population."

"And they can't be persuaded otherwise?" Daenerys asked.

"Not the Tullys," Varys said with a shake of his head. "They've been through too much at the hands of southern rulers. Robin Arryn is influenced strongly by Petyr Baelish – who would do just about anything if he thought it would benefit him. But he's not to be trusted, and from what I hear, the Arryn boy has started to grow something of a backbone. Riverrun would easily be taken by force, but the Eyrie has never been successfully invaded. The dragons would certainly increase your chances, but still – you would lose a lot of men trying to lay siege to the Vale."

She vehemently shook her head. "I have no intention of invading either, Lord Varys," she said. "That's off the table. If I have to marry Jon Snow to gain their allegiance peacefully, I will. I don't want any more war."

"You sound as if it's some great chore, marrying Snow," Varys said, glancing at her from the side. "He's kind, a good ruler, and handsome enough that it's just downright _embarrassing_ for the rest of us."

She gritted her teeth. "Yes, he is all those things. I could do a lot worse."

"You couldn't do any _better,"_ her advisor corrected. "And Euron Greyjoy, Robin Arryn and Jaime Lannister are the only other unmarried lords of the great houses that remain in Westeros. Unless you'd rather be tied to one of them?" he said sarcastically.

She glared at him. "I'd rather not marry anyone," she returned tightly. "But I like Jon Snow. I respect him. I'd very much like to roast Euron Greyjoy on a spit, the Arryn boy is practically still a child, and Ser Jaime is far too damaged for my tastes. Besides, none of them has as much to offer as Snow. Like you said, he now controls half of the continent."

"Then shall I ask the proper questions?" Varys asked.

She sighed. "Discretely, please." She shook her head with a sigh. "I feel as if I should talk to him about it myself, but for some reason I'm too embarrassed."

"It's normal to be shy around a man you have feelings for," he said matter-of-factly.

She looked at him skeptically. "I don't have feelings for him," she denied. _Liar._ She remembered watching him earlier, staring down at him while he'd twirled a wooden sword around as if it weighed no more than a quill. He had been in his element, then; covered in sweat, moving fluidly from one place to the next, eyes narrowed in determination as his muscles bunched and flexed whilst fending off his sister's attacks.

He was a beautiful man. And the more she tried to fight her attraction for him, the more she wanted him.

"Then you wouldn't be so bashful," Varys countered reasonably. "Keep in mind that I am aware that I'm speaking with the woman who stood naked in front of thousands of Dothraki and didn't even bat an eyelash. You aren't generally a shy person, My Queen. If Jon Snow were just some man you had to marry, then you wouldn't hesitate to proposition him. It would just be a repeat of your union with Hizdahr zo Loraq."

She glared at him. "Enough," she commanded sternly. She did not want to hear the truths that slid out of his mouth like honeyed poison. "I thank you for your counsel, Lord Varys. Now go do your job."

Varys bowed at the waist, and she hated the cool amusement that danced in his eyes. "As My Queen commands."

When she was finally alone, she turned and looked out the window, staring out over the sea. Viserion was a speck in the sky above, and she smiled. Drogon and Rhaegal were nowhere to be seen.

She looked down. Jon Snow spoke in hushed tones to one of his bannermen in the courtyard, and then they parted and went in different directions. Her gaze followed him, admiring the lean lines of his body until he passed through a gate and disappeared from her view.

* * *

oooo

Jon paced the cliffs, restless as he watched the sun sink below the water until his sister's ship was swallowed by the darkness.

Ghost whined next to him, and he stopped, sticking his torch in the ground and throwing his arms around the beast's neck. He pressed his nose into the direwolf's fur, inhaling the scent of the North.

"I miss home," he mumbled against Ghost's shoulder. "I don't like it here. Too hot."

It was funny, he thought – to most others, Dragonstone was chilly and windy, but for him and Arya and Tormund it bordered on uncomfortable.

He pulled back from his old friend. "Can you imagine what King's Landing must be like?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "All crowded and smelly and hot. Gods. It sounds like a nightmare." He sighed. "I just hope Arya stays safe. I won't be able to rest well as long as she's gone."

Ghost pressed his nose against Jon's shoulder and snuffled, and then yawned. Looking at Jon once more with those bright rose eyes, he trotted off, leaving Jon with only his torch for company.

His solitude did not last long. A flap of a massive wing nearly bowled him over, and Drogon landed next to him with a _thud._ Jon swallowed.

"Hello, my friend," he said quietly, lifting his hand to run it over the behemoth's neck. Drogon purred, and folded his wings in, leaning forward to rest his head on the ground near where Jon stood. He sighed, and sat down next to the black dragon, dangling his legs over the edge of the cliff and enjoying the creature's odd companionship. He laid an arm over Drogon's snout. For some reason, the dragons comforted him. When they were near, he felt a strange sort of relief, and it never failed to boost his mood.

"You don't think your mother would be jealous if she saw us out here, would she?" he asked with a small smile.

Drogon's nostrils flared, and he closed his great big eyes, obviously bored with the question. Jon snorted, and leaned against the dragon's head, drawing reassurance from the contact the same way he did with Ghost.

They sat out there for a long time before Jon heard footsteps behind him. He was expecting Daenerys, but when he turned his head Tyrion was walking up instead.

"It seems you've made a friend," the dwarf said, drawing his coat closer around his small frame as he sat next to Jon, staring at Drogon warily.

"Of sorts," Jon replied, patting the dragon fondly. Drogon shifted and growled half-heartedly, eyes like lava fluttering open briefly as he stretched out further on the grass. Jon was amazed at how large he was – resting on the ground, his skull was nearly as tall as Jon was standing up.

"I'm impressed," Tyrion said, reaching into his coat and withdrawing a wine skin. He took a swig, and then offered it to Jon, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. "Viserion and Rhaegal let me touch them on their necks, once, and I thought I was going to die a horrible death."

Jon sipped from the wine, enjoying the sweet taste of it on his tongue and the way the alcohol instantly went to his head. He hadn't had much of anything to eat today – he'd been too busy – and the red liquid sloshed around in his stomach, making him feel a little lightheaded. He handed it back to Tyrion. He'd never been drunk before in his life – he wasn't going to start now. Especially in a place so riddled with cliffs.

"How is your brother?" Jon asked softly.

"Coping," Tyrion answered. His scarred face was solemn. "I got him a bit tipsy, and he fell asleep in my chambers. Which are being heavily guarded, of course, by giant Dothraki soldiers."

"Of course," Jon murmured. "And how are _you?"_

The Hand shrugged. "I'm coping as well. In a different way." He sighed, and took a long drag of wine, wiping his mouth on his sleeve inelegantly. "I've grown to detest and pity Cersei in equal measure. But no matter how much my hatred for her waxes and wanes, she is, and always will be, my sister. Blood is a strong tie – it doesn't always follow the rules we want to set."

"No, I imagine not," Jon agreed, seeing the bitter truth in Tyrion's words. "I remember how much Lady Catelyn loved her children – she would do anything for them. Anything at all. But she hated me with a passion. Just as your blood ties you and your siblings together, the lack of shared blood drove a wedge between me and my father's wife."

"Blood had nothing to do with Catelyn's dislike for you," Tyrion denied. "She loathed you because you reminded her that her husband had once lain with another woman. One lovelier than her, if we're comparing your face to your older brother's – who wasn't ugly, by any stretch."

Jon flushed. "Can we not talk about how pretty my face is?" he said hotly. "I'm tired of hearing about it."

Tyrion chuckled. "It is a bit of a distraction, I'll admit," the dwarf said. "Especially for my poor beloved queen."

Jon froze. He swallowed, his hand suddenly tingling with the memory of what it had felt like to touch the skin of her bare back. Smooth, and warm. "This conversation makes me uncomfortable." Drogon shifted under his arm, sensing his disquiet.

"I imagine so," Tyrion replied. "I might feel uncomfortable too, if I knew the Mother of Dragons was attracted to me."

"I'm not even – " He stopped and inhaled irritably. He gestured to his face impatiently. "With all the scars – "

"Oh yes, because women hate strapping young warriors with cool scars," Tyrion said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Was there a point to your visit, Lord Tyrion, or did you just come out here to annoy me?" Jon said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded and how foolishly hope flared to life in his chest. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Alas, yes, the truth is often annoying," the youngest Lannister said mock seriously. "You're blushing like a virgin, Jon Snow." He paused, and his eyebrows drew down. "You aren't a virgin, are you?"

Jon turned his neck so fast that his vertebra popped. "No, I'm not, and I don't want to have this conversation with you." He patted Drogon on the nose. "Drogon here is a friend of mine, and friends don't let friends suffer under such mockery. I wonder if he's eaten recently?"

Drogon huffed as if on cue, and Tyrion held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright, I'll stop teasing."

They sat together in companionable silence for a while – a dragon, a dwarf, and a bastard. "We make an odd trio," Jon muttered, accepting another drink of wine from the Hand.

"What? No." Tyrion said with a playful scoff. "Have you never heard the joke about when a dwarf, a dragon, and a king meet in a pub?"

He chuckled. "Afraid not."

"Well, it goes like this: A dwarf, a dragon, and a king are sitting at a bar, sharing a flagon of ale…"

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oooo

Daenerys stepped out onto her balcony, already dressed for bed. She pulled her robe tighter around her to fight off the chill. Missandei was putting her clothes away, looking at Daenerys with worried eyes.

"You are restless," her friend said, turning down the coverlet on the bed.

Daenerys sighed. Her eyes caught on a spot of white, and she smiled fondly when she saw Ghost fly after a rabbit, tongue lolling out and teeth bared. "I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Is 'A Lot' what you are calling Lord Snow, now?" Missandei shrugged. "A strange title. But I've heard stranger."

Daenerys turned and looked at her with wide eyes. "Are you making a joke?" she asked skeptically.

Missandei's lips twitched. "Of course not, Your Grace."

"You _are!"_ she accused with an incredulous grin. "I would be angry at your insinuation, if I wasn't so distracted by the fact that Missandei of Naath just made a _joke."_

The slim girl shrugged, looking pleased. "I've been spending more time with Lord Tyrion. He is…a funny man." She frowned. "Although sometimes I don't understand his humor."

Daenerys shook her head, smiling. Missandei joined her on the balcony, and Daenerys turned back around as her friend began to undo her braids and brush her hair out with a comb.

Suddenly her translator stiffened. "Your Grace," she said, her tone tense, "is that Jon Snow out on the cliffs?"

Daenerys rolled her eyes, tired of hearing about Jon bloody Snow. He was all she could think about. Army of the dead marching on the wall? No big deal. Arya Stark going to murder Cersei Lannister? Whatever. No – Jon Snow filled every corner of her mind, and certainly not with the innocent thoughts of how he made a valuable ally.

Gods, she was a twit.

Still, she looked to where Missandei was pointing, and froze, her mind going blank.

She couldn't see him very well from so far away and with only the moon for light, but she squinted, and saw him sitting on the edge of the cliffs, with her Hand on one side and her eldest son on the other.

He had his arm resting casually on the tapered end of Drogon's nose, and he was laughing, holding his forehead with his other hand as his shoulders shook. Tyrion was waving his hands about wildly, obviously telling some story. Drogon's eyes were closed, and his nostrils flared with deep, steady breaths. The moonlight and the tiny spark of firelight from Snow's torch glinted dully off of her child's inky scales.

She inhaled, many emotions rising up in her chest all at once. "Tyrion and Varys want me to marry him," she blurted out, too unstable to comment on what was currently happening down below.

Missandei nodded, and started up again with the comb. "That makes sense."

"Does it?" Daenerys asked in a small voice. "Yes. I suppose it does." Her hands trembled. She swallowed. "I haven't felt such yearning for a man since I fell in love with my first husband," she whispered tremulously. "It scares me, Missandei."

"Why, Your Grace?" her confidant asked calmly. "Daario Naharis was your paramour for over a year."

"Jon Snow is not Daario Naharis," Daenerys said with a minute shake of her head.

Missandei hummed. "There is something special about him," she agreed. "He has a distinct kind of intensity."

"Intensity," Daenerys repeated. "Yes, that's a good word."

"So, why don't you take him as a lover?" Missandei asked bluntly. "Now that you know that he is talented."

"Missandei," she hissed reprovingly. "First of all, it's not that simple, and second of all, we don't _know_ that – "

"Men rarely compliment each other on their skills in bed, Khaleesi," Missandei interrupted. "Which means his reputation had to have been widely known – "

"Alright!" she barked impatiently. Desire stirred to life in her womb, and she shifted uncomfortably. "I don't care if it's true or not true – I'm not going to just jump into bed with him. It doesn't work that way. It's not that easy."

"Why?" Missandei said, sounding puzzled. "Do you think he would turn you away?"

Daenerys' breath hitched. She closed her eyes, imagining his dark, piercing gaze. Sometimes, briefly, she would catch a glimpse of something in those eyes – a deep, fierce sort of longing. And then they would drop to the ground, and the moment would be over.

"No," she said reluctantly.

"Then you should go to him," Missandei said simply. She shrugged. "If that's what _you_ want _,_ of course."

Daenerys shook her head silently, frustrated. She looked back down at where the object of her desires sat with two members of her family, looking entirely at ease leaning against the snout of her most ferocious child. Then she turned away, feeling overwhelmed.

That night she lay in bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth. At one point she heard Ghost howl; it was a mournful wail, long and low and poignant.

It was the sound of loneliness.

oooo

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 **Thanks guys!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Once again, thank you for your reviews!**

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"Do you think you'll ever stop hating me?"

Arya turned, meeting the bright cerulean eyes of the man that had haunted her dreams since they'd parted ways years ago.

Her nostrils flared. "I don't hate you."

Gendry raised an eyebrow. "Could've fooled me."

"I'm angry," she clarified, narrowing her eyes. "I'm angry that you left me."

He sighed, and leaned against the ship rail, looking out over the water. "So am I." He swallowed. "I'm not going to grovel and scrape for your forgiveness. I'm not going to come up with some elaborate, flowery apology. All I can say is that I'm sorry."

She exhaled, feeling most of the anger in her heart melt away like frost in spring. "I don't have the energy to stay mad at you," she said, sidling up to the railing next to him but keeping a couple of feet in between them. "I'm already mad at so many others."

"Does this mean you'll start talking to me again?" he asked, the note of hope in his voice pulling at her heartstrings.

She twisted, and gave him a small smile. "Perhaps."

Then she turned and walked back to her cabin. She needed to get some sleep. She had a very important mission to complete.

When she lay down and closed her eyes, Gendry's face was all she could see.

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oooo

 _Traitor._

 _Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor –_

Jon woke with a start, drenched in perspiration. He clutched at his chest, ripping open his robe and clapping his hand over his heart as he gasped for breath. He choked on a groan and scrambled out of bed, stumbling and falling to the floor.

He lay there for a moment, his chest heaving. His robe was soaked with sweat, and he lurched to his feet and peeled it away from his torso, flinging it to the floor. He staggered over to his balcony and threw open the doors, sucking in the sudden rush of cool air. It filled his lungs, and he closed his eyes in relief.

He heard a low growl, and his eyes snapped open. He looked to his left, and there was Rhaegal, curled up on the same ledge, his scales glittering under the cold light of the moon. The great green dragon snaked his head over the side of the balcony as he had the previous morning, looking at Jon expectantly. Jon reached out cautiously, touching Rhaegal's snout. The dragon pressed his nose into Jon's chest, and Jon trembled; then he crashed to his knees, throwing one arm over Rhaegal's emerald head and pressing his forehead to the scales there as his body shook with dry, wretched sobs.

The creature made a low rumble in his chest, and Jon enjoyed the warmth of his scales in contrast to the cool night air. He opened his eyes, turning to look into Rhaegal's gold-green stare to escape the image of Olly's face as he'd plunged a knife into Jon's heart. His breathing slowed, the dragon's steady gaze a balm to his frazzled nerves.

Finally he shifted from kneeling to sitting, pulling his legs up to his chest and leaning sideways against Rhaegal's head. He looked out over the island. The moon was still high in the sky, indicating that there were still several hours to go until the sun rose.

He was wide-awake. He knew he should at least try to go back to bed, but the prospect of closing his eyes and once again waking to the feeling of a cold knife sliding into his chest was not appealing. So he patted Rhaegal on the head and stood, sighing. He looked down to the beach, where Drogon lay stretched out on the sand, his tail twitching as he slept. A shadow passed overhead, and he looked up to see Viserion bank close to the castle, as silent as the wind.

"Care for a swim?" he murmured quietly to his unlikely companion. Rhaegal snorted, and stood on his perch, looking at Jon with an unfathomable gaze before raising his wings and leaping from the ledge.

Jon's lips quirked, and he watched with fondness as Rhaegal wheeled out over the cliffs and disappeared on the other side. Then he turned and went back into his chambers. Throwing on a loose, worn out tunic and some trousers, he slipped on his boots, grabbed Longclaw and opened the door soundlessly.

There was no one awake at this hour, except for the one Stark bannerman that stood in the hall outside his room. Jon nodded at him, and held up a hand as the man moved to follow him.

"It's fine, Barnes," he said softly, his voice hoarse with weariness. "I'm just going down to the ocean for a bit. Can't sleep."

The soldier nodded, leaning on his spear. "Of course, Your Grace."

He passed two Dothraki guards stationed at the bottom of the stairs, and then a handful more upon his exit – they watched him mistrustfully, but did not move to stop him.

He jogged down the stairs, breathing heavily, refreshed by the cool sea breeze. When he got to the beach, he cast his sword and scabbard down onto the sand, removed his boots and waded into the water, glancing over to where Drogon slumbered peacefully to his right. The dragon stirred when he heard the splashing, and cracked open one eye to look at Jon before closing it again and shuffling around so his back was to the sea. Jon chuckled at the clear dismissal.

He swam out until he couldn't touch the bottom, and then turned to float on his back. The seas were calm, the waves lapping gently at the shore. His body rolled over the mild swells, and he closed his eyes, spreading his arms wide.

He heard a distant splash. He opened his eyes, and Rhaegal landed gracefully in the water several meters away, folding his wings in and sitting on top of the water like a duck. Jon watched him dip his head under the water and come back up with a mouthful of fish.

He sighed and turned his eyes back to the sky, watching as Viserion blocked the moon for a moment as he flew overhead. Jon had never seen the golden dragon stationary. Granted, he hadn't spent that much time amongst the dragons to begin with, but Viserion always seemed to be in the air, only occasionally diving into the sea to catch prey.

He floated for a while, and then became restless and began to swim, working his body until his arms hurt and his sides ached. Finally he stumbled back up onto the beach, sitting down in the sand not far from where Drogon lounged. Within minutes Rhaegal crawled up next to him, laying his head next to his brother's haunch and spreading his wings so that one of them lay partially over Jon's legs. The warmth of his body so close to Jon kept him from catching a chill.

Tired, he folded his arms behind his head and leaned back. As soon as he closed his eyes, he fell asleep and did not dream.

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oooo

When he woke, he jumped. Two very large silver-gold eyes stared down at him, and he immediately sat up and scooted back. He hit something, and then realized he was trapped against Drogon's tail as Viserion loomed over him.

The golden dragon snarled at him, opening his mouth and baring his teeth. He moved closer to Jon, sniffing him, and Jon stayed frozen, knowing better than to make any sudden moves. Viserion was the youngest of the three, apparently having been the last to hatch, but he was slightly bigger than Rhaegal, and his head was not as elegant. His eyes were not as gentle, either.

To his relief, Viserion merely growled at him threateningly, and then took off with a beat of his wings that would have bowled Jon over if he hadn't already been sitting down. He released a shaky breath, and then stood, damp and covered in sand.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and Jon watched it for a moment before he dove back into the sea. Rhaegal was already back in the water, hunting for breakfast as Drogon stretched and shifted on the sand, propping himself up on his wings. He watched them, unsure if he wanted to join in; he finally decided that he was still tired, and laid his head back down on the beach, blinking and observing them with blood-orange eyes. He moved his tail back and forth like a cat.

Jon ducked underneath the water, washing the sand from his hair and clothes. When he resurfaced, he looked back to find Daenerys standing on the shore, watching him. She looked pretty today. Well – she looked pretty every day, but today she wore a floaty silver dress with a matching cloak and her hair was mostly unbound, the long wavy locks fluttering in the mild breeze save for two braids at her temples.

"I saw you from my window this morning," she called out, running her hand lovingly along Drogon's wing. Jon felt stupidly envious of the black dragon. "How long have you been out here?"

He swam to where he could stand, and then waded towards her. He shook his hair out and then smoothed it back from his face as best he could, self conscious of the way his shirt stuck to his torso. He pulled at it uncomfortably, willing it to dry.

"A few hours," he answered gruffly. "Woke up and couldn't sleep, came down for a swim." A shadow loomed over his shoulder, and Rhaegal waded up behind him, craning his neck out past Jon to nudge at his mother affectionately. "Dragons make for good company," he said with a soft smile, patting Rhaegal on the neck.

"They do," she confirmed. "They seem to really like you, Jon Snow. I'm sure you've realized by now that that is unusual."

He shrugged, feeling mildly uncomfortable. Her gaze was full of something terrifying – something that echoed the desire he felt. Tyrion's words from last night came back to him. _I might feel uncomfortable too, if I knew the Mother of Dragons was attracted to me._

"Viserion isn't too keen," he responded. She began to walk back towards the stairs, and he followed her. Rhaegal walked beside them, half in and half out of the water, and then he took off, joining his younger brother in the sky. Drogon followed, his movements almost lazy. "I met him this morning. I don't think he likes me very much."

She hummed. "Drogon is my fiercest, but Viserion is my shyest. He's always been a bit distant. As he's gotten older, he's even started to isolate himself more from his brothers." She shrugged. "He didn't hurt you. Which means he doesn't _dislike_ you."

Jon's lips twitched. "I suppose that's something."

She smiled. They climbed the stairs, and the early morning sunshine started to dry his clothes, the salt making them crusty. His hair curled more than usual. When they reached the top, she spoke again. "I received a raven this morning from Grey Worm, the commander of my Unsullied. He's bringing two thirds of his forces back to Dragonstone, to travel with us to the North for the coming fight. He'll be here in a fortnight. I imagine he'll want to speak with you at length about the invasion."

He nodded, feeling his heart sink back down to his stomach when he was reminded of what waited for them up north. "I've heard a lot about how impressive a military force the Unsullied are," he returned. "I'd like to organize a war council, with your Dothraki generals and Ser Jaime." He sighed. "Tormund as well. He knows the enemy better than anyone, even me. From what I know, the white walkers are decent strategists. But they don't have unfailing control over the wights; it's akin to hounds that you've trained – you can't always guarantee that you'll be able to override their instincts. We might be able to use that to our advantage."

"Cause enough chaos amongst them that they lose any semblance of order," she said with an understanding nod. "Makes sense."

"In theory," he said, less than confident. "That's all I've really got. Theories and suggestions and foolish hope."

"Hope is never foolish," she said, shaking her head. She put her hand on his arm. "Will you join me for breakfast?" she asked suddenly.

He cleared his throat, taken aback. "Of course," he replied uneasily. The heat of her hand burned through the thin fabric of his tunic. "Erm…right now?"

She snorted. "You should go get cleaned up first," she said with a raised eyebrow. "Despite your efforts to the contrary, you _are_ a king," she said casually. "Right now you look like something that just washed up on shore."

He huffed out a surprised laugh. She pulled her hand from his arm, and he instantly missed its warmth. "I doubt I'll ever look worthy of sitting at your table, Your Grace, but I'll try."

"You do that," she said. She winked at him charmingly, and his mouth dropped open just a bit. "I'll meet you in the great hall."

When she was gone, he shook his head to clear it.

 _A bath,_ he thought hazily. He walked briskly towards the doors. _Breakfast. Right._

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 **Thanks for reading! I'll be back with more tomorrow morning. :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**A bit of drama in this chapter. Just a warning: this is not going to be some long and drawn out epic. It will be fairly simple, more about the characters than the storyline. I don't want to get into another crazy plotline when I already have** _ **She Rises**_ **and** _ **The Zone Where Black and White Clash**_ **in the works. Still, I will flesh this out enough plot-wise to make sure it isn't super boring or anything. Mainly I'm counting on the sexual tension and the promise of eventual smut to keep people hooked.**

 **Anyways, on with the show!**

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"So what did you do?"

"Well, I enlisted the help of a couple of the Dosh Khaleen and conspired with Ser Jorah and Daario to trap the khals inside with me. Then I set the place on fire."

Jon Snow shook his head in disbelief. "And you just walked out, and the entirety of the Dothraki were yours to command?"

She smiled. "Basically."

"That was…clever," he said, his eyebrows drawing down.

She raised her eyebrows. "It's been known to happen on occasion," she quipped.

The blush on his face was adorable. "I didn't mean – "

"Oh relax, Jon Snow," she said, popping a grape in her mouth and sitting back in her chair. "Why are you always so formal around me?" she asked bluntly.

He cleared his throat. "You're a queen."

"I'm also a human being," she countered. "Not some vengeful goddess that you have to tiptoe around."

"I know that," he said roughly, his cheeks still tinged with pink. "It's just how I was raised."

She hummed, but did not respond. She saw his eyes drop from her eyes to the exposed skin of her neck and shoulders, and then down to her cleavage, and then to the table. His fingers fiddled restlessly with his fork.

She wanted to touch him. She wanted so badly to strip his tunic off over his head and admire the muscles she'd seen when his shirt had been plastered to his body earlier. She wanted to scrape her tongue along his and find out if he tasted as good as he smelled. She wanted to climb into his lap right there at the table and sink down onto his length.

She rubbed her thighs together. She wondered what kind of a lover he would be. Would he be gentle and slow, or did he have a dominant side that liked it rough? Perhaps a bit of both, she imagined. His eyes were so tender, but sometimes his gaze would smolder with an unexpected anger that she couldn't quite place. If you bottled up your temper like that, it was bound to unleash itself in some way.

Plus, if he really hadn't been with a woman since his wildling lover, he was bound to be ready to explode. And she wanted to be the one to make him explode. She wanted to see those calm eyes grow hot with need; wanted to shatter his impeccable control.

He cleared his throat, and she relished in his awkwardness. Before he could speak, Tyrion and his brother entered the hall. Ser Jaime looked haggard, his hair slightly unkempt and dark circles underneath his eyes. She felt for him. It made her forget that he had once charged towards her with a pike, intent on killing her.

"Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime," she said by way of greeting. She smiled at them both softly. "Please, join us."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Tyrion said, his voice strong and sure. He seemed upbeat and hopeful, and she was glad that he was not overcome with grief as his brother was. She noticed that Tyrion winked slyly at Jon, and that the King in the North rolled his eyes in response. "I hope you've both had a good morning?"

Daenerys nodded. "It's shaping up to be a lovely day. Jon Snow and I were just exchanging stories."

"Well, you both certainly have interesting ones to tell," Tyrion said with a smile.

"How are you faring, Ser Jaime?" Jon asked, speaking up.

The handsome blond swallowed. "I'm fine," he said quietly. "Anxious."

"What generally makes you less anxious?" Daenerys asked thoughtfully.

Ser Jaime gave her a small smile, and she almost felt honored by it. "Wine," he answered. "And fighting."

"I can help you with the first," Daenerys said, motioning to one of the lads nearby that held a pitcher. She did not recognize him.

"I can help you with the second," Jon said, laying a hand indicatively on the hilt of his sword.

"I'm afraid I'm not as good as I used to be," Jaime countered, holding up his golden hand.

"Still good enough for a round in the training yard?" Jon asked with a raised eyebrow.

Jaime nodded, already looking better than he had only moments ago. There was a spark of challenge in his eye. "As soon as I get some breakfast in my stomach." He picked up a piece of bread and slathered it with jam.

Just then he looked up, and Daenerys saw movement out of the corner of her eye. "Dagger!" the blond bellowed, lunging across the table towards her.

Everything happened so fast. As soon as the warning passed Jaime's lips Jon Snow stood, quick as lightning, and shoved her chair straight off the dais.

It was only one step up from the floor, but she still felt a pain in her wrist as her chair toppled sideways and she landed hard on the floor. She winced, and immediately scrambled to a crouch as Qhono and two Northmen gathered around her and helped her to her feet.

Daenerys watched in horror as the serving lad with the pitcher of wine sliced through Snow's shirt with the dagger, skimming his ribs. The King in the North hissed in pain, and then caught the young man's wrist with his hand and gave a brutal twist. The would-be assassin's bone snapped, and he cried out, dropping the dagger. Then Jon slammed him up against the wall and punched him hard in the face, once twice, thrice, until Daenerys heard his skull crunch against the stone. He wrapped his arms around the man's head and twisted, snapping his neck as efficiently and easily as he would snap a twig. Then he threw the limp body to the ground with such force that she heard the assassin's spine break.

"Are you alright, Khaleesi?"

Her lips parted, not taking her eyes off the assassin's bloody face as Qhono steadied her with large hands. "Fine," she responded in Dothraki. "I'm fine."

Jon Snow looked down at her, and in that very moment she felt fear; fear because she had just seen him kill a man with his bare hands – fear because his eyes were wild with immeasurable fury.

 _Brutal places make for brutal people._

Tyrion looked shocked, Jaime looked pained. The elder Lannister brother looked at her beseechingly. "He was on my ship," he said desperately. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't," Snow said harshly. "You wouldn't have tried to warn her if you had. You were the only reason I was able to act so fast. Otherwise the queen would be sporting a knife in the ribs."

"Are you alright?" she blurted out, finally finding her voice. She noticed the blood soaking through his shirt. "You're hurt."

"It's a scratch," he denied, holding his hand against his ribs. "I'm fine."

Jaime shook his head frantically. "The blade would've been poisoned," he cautioned. "Cersei would want to be as thorough as possible."

Snow's eyes widened just as he crashed to his knees. Jaime was there instantly to help lower him onto his back, and Tyrion rushed to his side. "Someone fetch the maester!" the dwarf bellowed. Several Northmen, after staring at their beloved king in horror, dashed for the doors.

Daenerys finally shook herself out of her daze, and climbed back up onto the dais, ignoring the pain in her hip and hand as she knelt beside him. One of the Northmen that had helped her strode over to them, his eyes hard and determined. He drew a knife from his belt, and immediately sliced open his king's shirt from the neck down before anyone could think to question his motives.

Jon clutched at the garment with a grimace. "Don't – "

"Help me get it off him," Jaime said through clenched teeth. He and the Northman tugged at the ruined shirt until it fluttered off the dais, and Daenerys reeled backwards in shock.

"Gods above," Tyrion breathed.

She stared. Vile, puckered scars littered his chest and abdomen, pink and raw and evil looking. There was one that curved over his heart, and she put a hand over her mouth, exhaling shakily.

"Please," Jon croaked out, his hands flying to his chest to try to block it from their sight. "Don't look. Just get the maester. Don't look."

Daenerys looked up and met Tyrion's eyes in horror. She could not speak. There were no words that could possibly be uttered that would make sense of anything.

Ser Jaime came back to himself, his mind adjusting to the crisis like the soldier he was, and he grabbed a goblet of water from the table and poured its contents over the fresh scratch on Snow's ribs. It was shallow, barely bleeding, but the edges had started to darken alarmingly. Then the Kingslayer grabbed a chalice of wine and repeated the process, which had Jon crying out in pain.

She grabbed his hand as his body arched up off the floor, his eyes going hazy with delirium. "Don't look," he repeated with a moan.

"Don't be ridiculous – it doesn't matter," she bit out harshly, unable to keep tears from spilling over onto her cheeks. Because he had saved her life, because he was wounded, because he had been butchered by someone once upon a time and she was going to kill every last one of them when she found out _who_ –

"Out of the way, out of the way."

Jaime grabbed Daenerys by the shoulders and pulled her up onto her feet and away from Jon Snow's prone form as the maester hurried to his side. He set a tray down, and then looked up at Jaime, Qhono, and the Northman. "I'll need you to hold him still."

Daenerys faded back into the crowd that had formed, surrounded by both Dothraki and Stark bannermen that gathered around her protectively, hands on weapons and eyes casting around the room suspiciously. Missandei appeared in the room and pushed through to stand beside her, grabbing her hand, and Tormund Giantsbane thundered in shortly after, shoving men out of the way to get to the front. He knelt by Jon's head, silent and glaring, and put one large hand on Jon's forehead to hold it down on the floor. His other hand grabbed a stray napkin from the floor and shoved it between Jon's teeth just as the maester took a knife to the poisoned flesh.

The King in the North made a terrible sound in his throat as the maester sliced the darkening skin from his abdomen whist his assistant dribbled a clear, strong-smelling substance on the freshly cut flesh. Snow howled, and Missandei clapped a hand to her mouth and turned away, angling her body into Daenerys' for comfort. Daenerys just watched on in dismay, feeling helpless.

Jon Snow continued to let out wretched, muffled screams, his body shaking and arching as much as it could whilst being held down by four strong men. Her eyes flickered over his form, from his head to his toes and back again, still struggling to make sense of the wicked scars that were scattered across his abdomen.

Seven. There were seven of them.

 _He took a knife in the heart for his people, he gave his li –_

 _Ser Davos gets carried away._

 _So it was a figure of speech?_

She inhaled sharply.

 _I was made Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and then they k –_

 _They said that his love for his woman died with him._

She exhaled shakily. Those wounds would not have been survivable. But…it was impossible to come back from the dead, right? Her brain whirred, struggling to rationalize what her eyes could clearly see.

But she kept coming back to the same conclusion: that Jon Snow had been stabbed to death – and then somehow resurrected.

* * *

oooo

Daenerys chewed her lip, pacing outside of Jon Snow's chambers with impatient strides. Qhono looked at her impassively.

"His fate is not for you to decide, Khaleesi," he said casually, using a small knife to clean the dirt out from under his fingernails. "Whether he lives or dies is not decided by how many steps you take outside his door."

She turned and glared at him. "Thank you, Qhono," she said tightly.

He smirked. "You like this man."

She narrowed her eyes, grateful that no one else in the hallway – Tormund, Tyrion, Jamie, Varys – spoke Dothraki. "He's a good man. And he saved my life."

Qhono bowed his head. "The Dothraki have a name for him, you know."

She tilted her head. "What is it?" she asked curiously.

" _Qan hosek ca'lar,"_ Qhono answered.

"The man who walks with wolves," she said softly. "Fitting, I suppose." She thought of Ghost, of how wild and sweet and lonely he was. Like Snow himself.

 _Jon Snow._ What to do with such a man?

Suddenly the door opened, and she whirled as the maester came hurrying out with his assistant, leaving the door cracked. He carried bowls and cloths stained with crimson. She swallowed.

"He'll be fine," the maester said briskly. "He's as healthy as any man has a right to be. And he's got Stark blood, so he's less susceptible to poisoning. He should be mostly functional within five or six days, fully recovered in a couple of weeks."

"Stark blood?" she said with a frown.

"The Starks and some other old northern houses are known for their resilience," the maester said with a small smile. "Some say it has to do with how strongly the blood of the First Men runs through their veins."

Tormund crossed his arms and smiled. "You bet your arse," he said gruffly. "Why do you think we're so hard to kill?"

This made Tyrion smile. "Can we see him, maester?"

The older man shrugged. "He's not conscious. But yes, you may see him. As long as you don't disturb him. He needs to remain stationary." He pursed his lips. "If he wakes, don't let him get up and move around. The medicine on the wound needs time to settle. I've known many men like him in my lifetime – he won't want to stay in bed long after he wakes. Threaten to tie him to it, if need be."

Daenerys' lips quirked. "Thank you, maester. I owe you a great debt."

The maester smiled. "You don't owe me anything, Your Grace. It's an honor to serve you. I'm just doing my job."

Then he was bustling away, apprentice in tow, and Tormund was bursting through the doors impatiently. The rest of them followed, and Qhono stayed at the door, keeping watch.

Ghost looked at them from his spot next to the bed. She stepped towards him, and crouched down to scratch him gently behind the ears. Then she straightened, and stared.

What she could see of his body was exactly how she'd imagined it. He was lean and fit, the muscles of his chest and abdomen hard and defined. He lay sprawled out on the bed, his lower half covered with a thin sheet, the thick blankets and furs bunched up around his feet. He breathed heavily through his nose, his eyes moving behind his eyelids as he slept.

The scars were just as jarring as they had been the first time she'd seen them hours ago. Deep and angry and pink, they looked liable to tear back open any minute now to bleed anew. The fresh wound on his ribs had been smeared with some kind of paste; the maester had had to quickly cut away the diseased skin, and so instead of a scratch, as it had been, there was a deep gouge in the flesh. Even now some blood oozed from the cut, making its way through the thick paste one drop at a time. It ran down his side to soak into a bed of cloths below.

"What happened to him?" Jaime asked, his eyes roving over the King in the North's torso with shameless curiosity.

Tormund grunted. "Got knifed."

Varys rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

" _Why_ did he get knifed?" Tyrion asked with a frown.

"Let the free folk past the wall," the redhead replied shortly, crossing his arms and sitting down in a chair in the corner, staring at his unconscious friend with wild blue eyes.

She exhaled through her nose, her nostrils flaring. "Are the men who did this already dead?"

Tormund nodded. "Aye."

She sneered with displeasure. "A pity," she said quietly, staring at the curved scar over his heart. "My dragons are always hungry."

The wildling chuckled, and she looked up to meet his eyes. He was looking at her differently, this time. With some measure of respect, perhaps. "He probably would have preferred that," he said, gesturing to the King in the North. "Doesn't like killing people, our Jon Snow," he said. "Good at it, but hates it. One of his attackers was a boy of thirteen." He shook his head sadly. "Little fucker deserved to hang, if you ask me, but he was still just a kid."

 _We all enjoy what we're good at,_ she'd said once upon a time.

 _I don't,_ Snow had denied softly.

She sat down in a rickety chair by the bed, sighing. Ghost shifted, lifting his head from the floor to rest it in her lap. She smiled, pleased. Tormund watched her with calculating eyes.

"There's no way he survived those wounds," Jaime said with a shake of his head. "I've been in many battles. Seen a lot of people die. Perhaps the stabs on the stomach would have been survivable," he continued, gesturing to Jon's abdomen, "but the one to his heart would have been fatal." His eyes jumped up to Tormund, narrowing on the massive half-giant. "How is he still alive?" he asked suspiciously.

Tormund crossed his arms, glaring at the Kingslayer. He looked reluctant. "There was a lady in red," he said gruffly. "One of those witches that are always going on about their 'Lord of Light.'" He scoffed. "Whatever. I don't know about any silly fire gods, but whatever she did worked." He made a motion with his hand. "And up he popped, good as new."

"The Lady Melisandre," Varys said, looking surprised.

"Aye, that's the one." Tormund scratched his head. "Got banished from the North, though."

Varys narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Snow found out she burned a child alive at the stake," Tormund said, his jaw clenching.

Daenerys sucked in a breath. She turned to Tyrion abruptly. "If that woman ever comes to this island again, I want her beheaded," she said, her voice shaking with rage.

"Perhaps having Drogon roast her alive might be more appropriate," her Hand suggested quietly. She was surprised – usually Tyrion was the nonviolent one, always urging caution and diplomacy.

"Indeed," she said darkly. She stroked Ghost's big head, carding her fingers through his thick white fur. He whined softly, closing his eyes.

Then again, the priestess had saved Jon Snow's life. Perhaps that was enough to cancel out the woman's misdeeds. Perhaps not.

Either way, she didn't want to think about it. She zoned out as the men around her exchanged words, and sat quietly as they took their leave until only she and Tormund remained.

He cleared his throat, and she looked up from where she was drawing random patterns on the top of Ghost's head with her fingers. "Well, Ghost seems to like you."

She smiled. The presence of the direwolf soothed her nerves in the same way her dragons often did. "Perhaps Jon Snow and I should trade places," she said jestingly. "Our non-human companions seem to have switched allegiances, to a degree. Two of my sons are positively enamored of him." She grinned. "Jon Snow, King in the North, Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Slayer of White Walkers, Tamer of Dragons. Soon he'll have as many titles as I do."

Tormund grunted. "So you'll admit that he's the King in the North? I thought you were all about having him bend the knee."

She looked at him, her face smooth and impassive. "Perhaps my priorities have changed," she said coolly. "After all, what is having someone bend the knee when there's an army of the dead ready to march on the Wall?"

"You're right, puts things in perspective." He stood, stretching and looking down at his friend on the bed. He patted Snow's ankle. "Perhaps we should add Protector of Queens to his list of titles?"

She gave him a soft smile. "I like that. Good idea."

"I'm full of good ideas." He winked at her, and then strode to the door; he opened it and walked out, leaving her alone with the enigmatic King in the North and his wolf.

oooo

* * *

 **As usual, thanks for reading! Please drop a line in the box below if you feel the urge.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Just another reminder, this isn't a story that I've put a lot of thought and effort into. It's just to satisfy my GoT obsession. As always, I really appreciate your thoughts and ideas, and I** _ **always**_ **take your words under advisement. Especially for something like** _ **She Rises,**_ **which is something I'm really invested in. But this is going to be a pretty short fic, and not super plot heavy or anything like that. I'm going to skim over some things, and make up some new things just because I'm too lazy to come up with good explanations. So if you read something and scratch your head and think "That's really unrealistic" or "It doesn't say anything like that in the books or movies", don't worry, I know exactly why you feel that way. It's intentional. This is a lazy fic. I don't feel like working too hard on it. Why do you think I update every day? Doesn't take me long to write the chapters.**

 **Anyways, I hope you still enjoy it for what it is: just a light-hearted story that brings a few characters together. Don't think too hard about the details and plot. The relationships and dialogue are far more important.**

 **That being said, smut warning for this chapter. I'm not going to post a warning at the beginning of every chapter, but since this is the first smut scene I thought I'd just give you a heads up.**

 **And no, it's not between Daenerys and Jon. I'm sure you can guess who, though.**

 **Giraffe :)**

* * *

oooo

She couldn't help the pity that she felt. And she hated herself for it.

There was no reason for Arya to pity Cersei Lannister. No reason at all.

But as she poured the queen wine whilst wearing Qyburn's face, she looked into those cyan eyes and saw only madness and pain. And she felt sorry for Cersei – felt sorry that she had been born into an awful family, married to a terrible husband, lost all three of her poor, inbred children. And Arya felt her hatred melt away, suddenly feeling tired and old.

Cersei was the last on her list. Her knife was still sticky with the blood of Ser Ilyn Payne, and the Mountain lay crumpled in the corner of Qyburn's quarters downstairs. The Red Lady hadn't actually killed Gendry, and had brought Jon back to life – so she had a free pass. The same could be said for Beric Dendarrion and Thoros of Myr. The Hound…well. Sandor had worked his way off her list a long time ago.

So that just left Cersei.

She watched with a smooth, cool satisfaction as the queen drank the wine she provided. It was not the satisfaction that came with revenge. It was the satisfaction borne by the strange combination of justice and mercy. There was a certain peaceful feeling that came with this particular kill – a completion, of sorts. Arya felt as if something within her soul was knitting itself back together.

Cersei did not speak to her, even as Arya wore Qyburn's face. So she left, and hid herself away near the drain below the Keep from whence she'd come. She sat for only an hour. When she heard the alarm bells, she tore off Qyburn's face, stuffed it in her bag, and slipped through the grate.

Gendry met her with a torch. He swallowed. "I gather from the bells that it was a success."

"Yes," she confirmed quietly.

He gave a curt nod. "Ser Davos is holding the boat just offshore. The tide is high; we might get a bit wet."

* * *

oooo

After they'd rowed back out to their ship, the few Northmen that manned the vessel helped haul them aboard. Arya went immediately to the main cabin and began to strip her wet clothes from her body. Whilst the waters of Blackwater Bay were warmer than in the North, and the air still relatively balmy, winter was coming, and it was easy to catch a chill, even farther south.

She was just draping her clothes over a rack next to the wood stove when the door opened.

"You forgot your bag – "

Said bag dropped to the floor as Gendry's mouth fell open, noticing her state of undress. He stammered and covered his eyes with his hands.

"Don't be stupid," she said, snapping her fingers to get his attention. "Get in and close the bloody door."

He did instantly, still shielding his gaze from seeing her naked form. "I didn't mean to – I wasn't – I didn't know – "

"Oh, shut up," she said, rolling her eyes impatiently. She grabbed a blanket off the rickety bed and wrapped it around herself. More for his comfort than her own. There wasn't a whole lot of modesty left over these days. She had never been one for shy blushes and discretion in the first place. She tossed a fur blanket at him. "You're embarrassing yourself. Get out of your clothes before you catch a cold."

"I'll just…" He swallowed, and pointed towards the door. "I'll go below deck."

She shrugged, and sat down on the edge of the small bed. "Suit yourself," she said unworriedly.

He paused, looking puzzled. "I figured you'd want privacy."

"It really doesn't matter," she said, raising an eyebrow and rotating her ankles, holding her feet out by the stove. "I couldn't care less. If you want to stay, then stay. If you want to go, go." She paused, and looked sideways at him, wondering at her boldness. "But if you stay, don't just stand there like a fool. Get dry."

Something strange gleamed in his eyes. She swallowed, fisting her blanket tightly as if it would help keep her firmly on solid ground. For some reason, despite her general lack of care around men, she was nervous.

Perhaps it was because she had never been interested in a man. Except for this one.

Gingerly, he sat down on the floor at the end of the bed by her feet. He took off his soggy boots and socks, and then stripped his outerwear from his body until he wore nothing but his smallclothes. She let her eyes rove unabashedly over his bare torso, drinking in what she could before he slung the blanket over his shoulders and leaned back against the foot of the bed, sighing as he warmed himself by the fire.

"Better?" she asked quietly.

He hummed. "Yeah." He paused. "It's getting colder by the day," he murmured.

"Winter is coming," she said, thinking of her father. "Pretty soon it will start to snow."

"It won't get as bad as it is north of the Wall, will it?" he said, wrinkling his nose adorably. Suddenly she was reminded of their time together on the road, six years before.

"Probably not, no," she said with a smile. "Still. You'll have to get better clothes," she continued, reaching out with her leg and toeing at his wet tunic. "We'll make a Northman out of you yet."

When she looked back down at him, his head was turned, and he was staring at her bare leg with a hooded gaze. His pale blue eyes traveled from the arch of her foot up to where her blanket draped over her thighs, and then jumped up to where the furs had slipped off of one shoulder. They drifted languidly up her neck to her jaw and mouth before he met her eyes. The look in them was unfamiliar and terrifying, and yet she didn't want him to look away. She stared him down, and his nostrils flared when she let the blanket slide down even further, baring the tops of her breasts to his searching gaze.

Tentatively, he raised a hand to her foot, cupping her heel in his palm and running a callused thumb over her ankle.

She shivered, her mouth parting as a stab of desire shot straight through her body to her womb. She did not pull away. She did not _want_ to pull away. He ran his hand farther up her leg to rest in the crook of her knee, and she trembled beneath his touch.

He stood, his muscles bunching as he rose smoothly to his feet. He stared down at her, still holding her calf in his hand. His other hand was clenched into a fist at his side, and she so badly wanted it on her body, so badly wanted his lips on hers and his cock buried inside her.

"Arya."

His voice was soft, searching; rough with a desire so deep it must have been painful. She stared up into his eyes and pulled the edges of her blanket apart, letting it slip from her body and fall back onto the bed. She lay back on the furs, completely naked and shameless before him. He towered over her, and she admired his height and the breadth of his shoulders and the way his abdominal muscles moved as he breathed harshly through his mouth. She could see the outline of his erection through the damp fabric of his pants.

When he slid his hand further along her body, skimming her hip to skate along her ribs, she shuddered and looked up to the ceiling. When she felt him grab her breast and flick his thumb over her nipple, she gasped and arched into his touch.

He leaned down over her, bracing his weight against the bed with his other hand, and her hands slid into his damp black hair as he pressed his lips to hers.

It felt like coming home. It felt like Winterfell and family and snow and the feel of a direwolf's fur under her hand. It was perfect, natural, and he released a low, guttural moan against her lips as his tongue slid into her mouth.

She had never done this before. She'd seen it done plenty of times – wandered through enough brothels and taverns and bathhouses to know how it worked. She'd heard a lot of talk by men and women alike. But the actual feeling itself was a revelation. Liquid heat trickled from her womanhood, leaking down to smear across her inner thighs, and she whimpered as Gendry broke away from her and slid her further up the bed, climbing up after her. He knelt between her legs, nudging her thighs apart and reaching down to run his thumb along her slit.

She arched off the bed, gasping in shock as pleasure snapped along her nerve endings. She heard him make a noise in his throat, and she sucked in a breath when he leaned down to take her nipple into his mouth as his thumb drew circles around the sensitive little nub at the top of her slit.

She keened loudly when he dipped two fingers between her nether lips and began to push them inside. His other hand went to cover her mouth, and he shushed her as he buried his fingers knuckle deep and pulsated them against a spot that had her biting down on the skin of his palm, her mind going blank as the pleasure overrode the discomfort of his intrusion.

Just as she had not done this before, it was clear that he had. The thought bothered her only a little; but she was glad that he knew what he was doing. And she wanted him; Gods, she wanted him. Just lucid enough to act rationally, she bent her knees and used her feet to shove his pants down his legs. His manhood sprang free, and she wrapped her hand around it, her thumb swiping the tip curiously.

He moaned, and the hand at her mouth flew to the mattress, steadying himself as he rested his forehead against hers. He breathed harshly against her mouth, and she nipped at his lips. He scissored his fingers inside her, and then pulsed them against that place again, and her hips bucked against his hand as she whimpered into his mouth.

"Please," she managed to say, her voice breathy and unrecognizable. "Gendry, please – "

He removed his fingers from her, and she jerked at the loss. Then he pried her hand from his cock and guided himself to the throbbing junction between her legs. He ran the head of it up and down her slit until she was squirming impatiently, her body trembling with the need for release.

"Arya," he breathed, pulling his head back from hers enough to look into her eyes. He was asking permission. She brought a hand up to grasp the back of his neck, and touched her lips to his in a butterfly kiss.

He sighed, and then the head of his cock pressed against her cunt and he began to work his way inside.

She choked on a groan, pleasure and pain swamping her body in equal measure. Gendry was a large man – tall, broad, built like a mountain; his penis was proportionate to the rest of his body, not massive but impressive in both length and girth. She hissed as he pushed in inch by inch, and threw her head back against the mattress as he broke through her hymen. He stopped, his breath coming in harsh pants against her forehead. Then he withdrew, and she winced, both relieved and disappointed at the loss. When he slid back in, there was no longer a barrier to impede his progress, and he buried himself to the hilt with one languid thrust.

He held himself there for a few moments, letting her adjust. His teeth scraped along her jaw as her eyes crossed with pleasure, pain, _something –_

Then she bent her knees, and squeezed her thighs around him, wanting him to move, to do something, because there was a pressure in her abdomen that was both wonderful and terrible, and she wanted – she wanted. She wanted _him._

He released a shaky breath, and then withdrew slowly, the muscles in his arms bunching as he held his torso up, looking down at her with hot, lustful eyes. Eyes the color of a summer sky. She whimpered when he plunged back in, pleasure chasing the pain away as the sting began to lessen in the face of something greater, something better.

He was tender with her. His movements were steady, unhurried, and one of his hands explored her body as he fucked her deep and slow; his fingers pinched her nipples, his nails scraped across her abdomen, his callused palm cradled her neck.

She began to pant under his patient ministrations, and his hands grabbed her arms and pushed them up above her head, holding her wrists to the bed as his movements started to change tenor. She huffed in pleased surprise when he snapped his hips against hers, speeding up until he was pounding into her. The pressure of his hands made her wrists ache, his too-tight grip bound to leave delicious bruises on her pale skin. She bent her knees up for a better angle, and he cursed foully, his movements becoming rough as he lost control.

She hiccupped when he started to slam into her, his skin slapping against hers with an obscene wet sound that had the aching burn in her abdomen intensifying. She started to whine as her pleasure built, and he brought one hand down to her pussy to rub against her clit.

"Fuck!" The expletive escaped her lips before she could help it, and he huffed out a pleased laugh, flicking his thumb back and forth over the sensitive bud as he continued to shove his length into her again and again and again and again –

Finally she exploded, closing her eyes and throwing her head back as pure ecstasy traveled white-hot through her blood stream. Her legs quivered, and her channel clenched around his length as her spine bent and she arched up off the bed with a high-pitched keen.

She went boneless in his arms, her fingernails digging into his back as her body shook apart. She vaguely heard him groan, and then he whispered her name in rapture as he emptied himself within her. The hot feel of his seed within her compounded her orgasm, and she whimpered, still caught in the throes of her own climax even as he reached his.

He stilled, and they just lay there for a moment, breathing hard as they came down from their high. Eventually he made to pull away, and she locked her ankles behind his back.

"Stay," she whispered hoarsely, her eyes closed as exhaustion stole over her body, settling onto her skin like a blanket. "Just for a minute."

He nodded, and lowered his head to kiss her neck before he sank down on top of her, still sheathed inside her as his member softened.

He stirred a few minutes later, and he flipped them over so that she straddled him. She nuzzled into his neck, sighing in contentment. His fingers traced languid patterns on her back.

"Arya," he finally said, his voice soft and full of something that sounded suspiciously like regret.

She hummed, and then sat up, putting her hands on his wide chest and pushing herself into an upright position. His gaze flickered down to her breasts, and then down further to where they remained conjoined. Their shared fluids and the blood of her stolen virginity were spread messily around their groins, gleaming wetly in the dim light that the wood stove provided. Then those sky blue eyes slowly rose to meet hers, and she stared into them without a hint of shame.

"Don't," she said quietly, her voice firm. "Don't you dare pull away from me."

He closed his eyes, and his hands went to her thighs. "I don't want to, Arya, but _Gods,_ you're a highborn lady and I'm – "

"A bastard?" she said with a bitter twist of her lips. "Do you think that _matters_ anymore?" she said mockingly. "Look at my brother. He's a bastard. Now he's _king,_ and quite possibly on his way to marrying a highborn _queen._ " Her nostrils flared. "Besides," she continued softly. "My sister is the one that will marry for political advantage. I'm the second born daughter. Which means I can do whatever the fuck I want."

"Arya – "

She rotated her hips, and he hissed, his cock twitching inside her. She leaned down to kiss him, and his lips opened for her as his grip tightened on her thighs.

"Stop thinking about it," she whispered. "And be with me. Just me." She swallowed. "Stay."

His hands went to her triceps, and he squeezed, looking up into her eyes. "Always."

* * *

oooo

Jon drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few days. He would open his eyes to blearily see Tyrion or Daenerys or Tormund by his side, but was never able to speak before his eyelids fluttered closed again.

Finally he woke for good, groaning and blinking the sleep from his eyes. He shifted, and pain stabbed his side. He winced and grunted.

"You shouldn't move," a soft voice said from his left. "I was told to tie you to the bed if you wouldn't cooperate."

He turned his head, and stared up at Daenerys, who sat looking as beautiful as ever in a dark green dress. Ghost's head lay in her lap, and she was absently carding her fingers through the thick fur of his neck. Upon Jon's movement the direwolf lifted his head and craned his neck to bump Jon on the forehead with his cool, wet nose.

"Alright," he croaked out, grimacing as a steady, tired ache began to beat a rhythm against his ribcage. He looked down –

Heedless of the pain it caused him, he snatched the bed sheet from around his hips and yanked it up to cover his bare chest, shielding his scars from her gaze. He didn't want her looking at them, didn't want her to know –

"I've already seen," she said softly from beside him. "You've been out for five days. Tormund told us what happened. Or the abbreviated version, at least." She sighed, and reached forward to pry his hands away from the coverlet. He allowed her to do so, closing his eyes in embarrassment. She gently pulled the sheet back down to his naval. "The maester just refreshed the dressing on your wound a couple of hours ago. It needs to breathe. Just leave it be."

There was a moment of silence, and then he felt her small, warm hand settle on the junction of his chest and shoulder. Jon opened his eyes and met her cornflower blue gaze. He swallowed.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "You saved my life."

"Ser Jaime – "

"Yes," she said with a nod. "I owe him thanks as well. But you were the one that took the knife for me."

"It's nothing," he denied easily.

"It's not _nothing_ , _"_ she said sternly, narrowing her eyes on him. "It can never be _nothing,_ Jon Snow."

He cleared his throat and nodded, feeling uncomfortable. "I suppose we're even, then," he said, thinking of when Drogon had blasted wights away with jets of fire as he and his team had dashed for the caves. "A life for a life."

She shook her head. "It's not the same," she said quietly, her hand still burning a hole through his skin. He imagined that hand in other places –

 _Nope. No, no, no._

"I risked practically nothing when I sent Drogon north," she continued. "You almost just died."

He stared up at her. "You're far more important than I am," he said quietly; honestly. "I'm replaceable. My sister could easily take my place up north. She would make a good ruler. But there is only one Mother of Dragons."

Her lips turned up at the corners, but her eyes were sad. "You are many things, Jon Snow," she said quietly, sliding her hand down to rest over his heart, "but replaceable is not one of them." She traced the tips of her fingers over his scar – the one that Olly had given him when he'd plunged the final blade into his chest. His muscles jumped under her hand, and he dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to hold onto his control. Wounded or not, he itched to touch her, undress her, make love to her.

But that was foolish thinking. She was a queen, and he was a bastard, and despite possibly being attracted to him, as Tyrion had claimed, she would certainly never stoop to acting on it.

She stood, and pulled her hand back, sliding it over his skin and just barely brushing his nipple in a way that just prolonged and worsened his torture. "Get some rest," she said tenderly. "And try not to move. I'm going to find the maester. And I'm sure Mister Giantsbane and the rest of your men would like to know that you're awake."

He simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He watched as Ghost followed her to the door. She patted him on the head one last time, and then slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Ghost padded back over to the bed, laying down next to it and putting his head up on it to stare at Jon with red eyes. Jon scratched his companion behind the ears affectionately, and then drifted off to sleep once more.

oooo

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 **Alrighty then, there you go! Next chapter will be up tomorrow.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Special thanks to Daranak, who pointed out a horribly shameful mistake I made in the last chapter. I won't say what it was, because I'm too embarrassed. But I appreciate his/her words of advisement.**

 **I've also had a couple of reviewers mention how they were super dissatisfied with the Jon/Daenerys sex scene in the finale, and I totally agree. I mean, Kit Harington's glutes are prettier than Emilia Clarke's face, which is impressive – but the scene itself was rushed, and as TheYamiNeko and Daranak said, there was none of the buildup that we all wish for: the sensual dialogue, the nerves, the first kiss, the stripping of clothes, etc. I can't promise that I'll be able to do it justice – I just don't really like making promises at all, because I'm afraid I won't be able to fulfill them – but I will certainly strive to do a better job at filling in those important parts that they skipped in the show.**

 **There is something delightfully awkward about Jon Snow's character when it comes to women. Honestly, I'm kind of surprised that it was he who went to Daenerys in the show and not the other way around. Idk how I feel about that.**

 **Also, I'm really enjoying the comments that people are leaving about "forecast showing eight inches of snow." I've never heard that before, and it tickles me pink any time I see it in my inbox. I'm not going to assign a length to Jon Snow's penis in my story – I'll just let you assume what you like about it. Everyone has their particular preferences, you know? Who am I to take that choice away from your imagination? ;)**

 **Anyway, let's talk about marriage!**

* * *

oooo

"You really shouldn't be standing."

Jon turned from his balcony, barely having heard the click of the door as it opened. Varys let himself into Jon's chambers, Ghost growling briefly and half-heartedly before resuming his nap by the fireplace. A young servant girl came in behind him, setting a tray of food on the small round table before gliding out again, silent and unseen just like serving girls were supposed to be.

"I couldn't just lay there any longer," he said gruffly, his voice still hoarse from little use. He decided against a robe; everyone had already seen his naked torso – there was no use being modest now, especially since his side was still so sensitive and covered with medicinal paste. "It's been nearly six days." He paused, and then nodded to the door. "That girl one of ours?" he asked suspiciously.

"One of the queen's, yes," Varys returned smoothly, his brown eyes sparkling with something that made Jon wary. "Although I suppose 'ours' is just as good a term. Or it could be, if you wanted it to."

Jon was no fool. He narrowed his eyes. "You've been busy scheming."

"Scheming is what I do best," Varys replied, sitting down at the table regardless of not having an invitation. "Although this time it's the good kind."

"The good kind?" Jon asked, sitting down across from the bald man and wincing with pain.

"The kind that might result in an advantageous marriage."

Jon swallowed. His mind started to whir, and he felt overwhelmed, blindsided by Varys' words. "If you're suggesting I marry Queen Daenerys, that's impossible," he scoffed, a knot forming low in his stomach. "It's not allowed. I'm just a bastard."

"You're a _king,"_ Varys said with a raised eyebrow. "And you must start thinking like one if you're going to remain so. Surely you realized that you were going to have to marry at some point?"

Jon gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. _Marriage._ "No," he answered tightly, feeling hysteria creep up on him. "It never even crossed my mind."

"That's because you're still thinking like a bastard," Varys said matter-of-factly, pouring himself and Jon a cup of juice. "Which now comes second to your status as a monarch." He sipped at his juice; Jon was afraid he might throw his back up if he were to drink any. "I exchanged words with Arya and Ser Davos shortly before they left, and sent a Raven to Winterfell a few days ago, which was promptly returned this morning with a note from your lovely sister Sansa."

Jon stiffened, feeling anger swell within him. "And you didn't talk to me about it _why?"_

"I'm talking to you _now,"_ Varys countered, looking unconcerned and unapologetic. "I wanted to get Arya's perspective as someone who cares about you. I asked Sansa to subtly meet with each northern lord and get their opinions on things. Ser Davos had already spoken briefly to Tyrion about it before you even left Dragonstone for your mission up north." He picked up an orange and began to peel it. "I wanted to put feelers out before I brought it up with you."

"Does the queen know?" Jon said exasperatedly, thinking of the blonde beauty with kind eyes.

"Yes," Varys said with a nod.

"Then why didn't she bring it up with me herself?" he asked, struggling not to feel insulted.

Varys gave him a smile that was just slightly condescending. "I think she was quite fearful of rejection," he drawled, his expression unreadable.

Jon fiddled with a piece of bread, his appetite gone in the face of his anxiety. "I don't see why my rejection would matter," he said, feeling in over his head. "She has her pick of all the lords in Westeros. If I reject her she could just choose another one."

"Firstly," Varys said, looking slightly exasperated, "you are not a _lord._ You are a _king._ A king with a very loyal following. Did it never occur to you that you have the most to offer?" he asked. "Over half the continent has declared for you. You come with three of the great houses attached to your name – Stark, Arryn, Tully. Powerful allies; allies with good armies and vast land holdings." He cleared his throat as he gave Jon a chance to come to terms with the magnitude of his position. "Secondly," he began again, his voice more cautious, "you seem to be under the impression that Queen Daenerys is approaching a potential marriage to you with total reluctance. Do you imagine that she dislikes you?" he asked incredulously. "Are you really that obtuse?"

"Watch it," Jon said darkly, glaring at the eunuch. "Being attracted to someone is not the same as wanting to marry them."

"Apologies." Varys bowed his head in supplication. "And marrying someone for strategic advantage does not automatically exclude the possibility of feelings," he said reasonably, looking Jon purposefully in the eyes. "Sometimes, if you're lucky, the two go hand in hand."

Jon sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "So what did my sisters have to say?" he asked tiredly.

"Arya gave very little of her feelings away," Varys said. "But she confirmed that she thought it was a good idea, albeit in a very vague sort of way. Lady Sansa seems to be cautiously on board – six out of the eight lords she was able to speak to on such short notice also thought it was prudent."

Jon sighed. "I've no reason to reject her," he said truthfully. His heart stuttered, and his whole body flushed with heat as the reality of his situation settled in his mind. Marriage to Daenerys Targaryen…

He could think of worse fates.

"But if we marry," he said slowly, determinedly, drumming his fingers on the table, "it will be on equal footing. I will not bend the knee. I will not sit aside like a decoration whilst she sits on the throne and makes all of the decisions. Half of Westeros' people are _my_ people. I'm not going to marry for 'strategic advantage', as you put it, only to fade into the background and watch as a foreigner attempts to govern a land she knows nothing about." He met Varys' eyes. "I watched for years as my father and his wife governed their land fairly and justly, and they did it together. It was a partnership. One that was founded on mutual respect and, eventually, love. As much as I like and respect Daenerys – and as much as I think she will make a _good_ queen – I won't sit side-by-side with a tyrant."

Varys was silent for a moment, his hands frozen around his orange as he appraised Jon with shrewd nut-brown eyes. Jon held his gaze unflinchingly. He was serious about his conditions.

Finally the eunuch nodded. "I temporarily forgot how forthright Northerners are," he said, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Would you like me to speak with her about it, or would you rather do the honors?"

"I want to talk to her, but I'm not sure I'm capable of presenting my argument without offending her," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You or Tyrion would be better equipped, perhaps."

"Perhaps not," Varys said thoughtfully. "Sometimes my queen needs a firmer hand. Tyrion and I are advisors – we advise. Carefully. Calmly. We aren't allowed to demand things of her, or force her to compromise. Granted, we don't often run into this problem, because the queen is smart and listens rather well – most of the time." He finished peeling his orange. "But you aren't an advisor," he continued. "You aren't one of her soldiers. You haven't sworn allegiance to her; merely cemented a rather healthy alliance. This puts you in a position to make demands." He paused, and shrugged. "Carefully."

Jon nodded, feeling completely out of sorts. Sansa was better at this than he was. She would know exactly how to react, exactly what to say and do.

Varys stood. "You look like you're about to keel over, Jon Snow," the man said. "Eat something, and then get some more rest – maester's orders."

Just as he turned towards the door, the room shook ever so slightly. Jon frowned, and then heard the familiar purr of a dragon. He relaxed, even as Varys tensed beside him and Ghost bounded to his feet, snarling.

Rhaegal snaked his neck over the balcony as he was so fond of doing, and went so far as to shove his head through the open doors, bumping the little table with Jon's breakfast and nearly toppling it over. His eyes flicked to Varys, and he bared his teeth in a savage snarl. Varys backed away slowly, and Rhaegal's gaze went to Jon.

He touched the green dragon carefully on the snout, amused at how the great beast's head barely fit through the doors. "Hello again," he greeted with a smile.

"Well," Varys said, tiptoeing past Ghost towards the door. "It seems that our time together has come to an end. I will discuss our conversation with Lord Tyrion. We'll be in touch."

"You do that," Jon said amusedly, inwardly grinning as he casually leaned against Rhaegal's neck. He held up a hand. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Lord Varys."

Varys gave him a shallow bow. "I will attempt to do so. Alive," he added with a tight smile, his eyes flickering to Rhaegal. Then he slipped out the door, leaving it cracked.

"Nice," he said to Rhaegal. "Good timing. I was starting to tire of his company." He wrinkled his nose. "Too much plotting and trickery for my tastes."

Rhaegal's head turned just slightly, and Jon looked over to where Ghost stood, his hackles raised as he bared his teeth in a silent snarl. "It's alright, Ghost," he said quietly. "Come here." He made a beckoning motion with his fingers, and his old friend crept towards him one step at a time, his pinkish eyes still fixed on the green dragon.

Finally they got within a foot of each other. Rhaegal stayed still, looking at Ghost with something that felt like curiosity. Ghost's hackles went back down, and he sniffed carefully at the dragon's nose.

Then Rhaegal became bored with the meeting, and huffed. Ghost yelped and whirled, sprinting towards the door with his tail tucked between his legs. He blasted through the still open door with a whimper, and then was gone.

Jon laughed. He tried to stifle it, because it _hurt,_ but he couldn't help it – it had just been so funny. He walked over to the door, feeling a bit weak but overall in good spirits. Closing the door, he went back to the table, and sat, Rhaegal's giant head pressed against his thigh.

"I'm supposed to eat something," he murmured, looking at the spread before him. "But I don't really feel like eating." Suddenly his anxiety over his conversation with Varys returned full force. He snatched a pastry from the tray impatiently. "But it might be a good distraction."

When he was finished, he turned his head sideways to stare into Rhaegal's calm green gaze. "I'm not very good company right now, I'm afraid," he said honestly. "Just been sleeping a lot, lately." He got to his feet, dragged the table to the side to give Rhaegal more room, and stumbled back over to his bed. "But you're welcome to stay for as long as you like. I like the company."

Rhaegal closed his eyes and rested his head on the rug, sighing. Jon shrugged, and sat gingerly down onto the bed before swinging his legs up. He pulled his hair back into a knot – it was barely long enough to do so successfully – and grunted in discomfort.

It did not take long for him to find a comfortable position, and he quickly fell asleep. When he dreamed, he dreamed he was flying.

* * *

oooo

"Your Grace."

Daenerys looked up from her lunch, startled to find Jaime Lannister in front of her, looking marginally better than he had in days previous.

"Yes, Ser Jaime?" She gave him a slight smile. She liked Jaime. She was starting to learn that not everyone was as they appeared. Jaime had tried to kill her once, this was true – but she'd tried to kill him first. Plus, Tyrion loved his brother, respected him; and Tyrion was not someone to be blinded by family loyalty. If he held his brother in high regard, it wasn't because of their shared blood.

At the end of the day, it was easier to let bygones be bygones. At least, in certain situations.

He looked out the window, his gaze scanning the sea from the very spot she'd been nearly assassinated from a few days before. "I forgot to do something."

She leaned forward, and Missandei looked up from her book. "What did you forget?"

Jaime swallowed, and Daenerys' heart stuttered as he knelt. "I've been here a short time. But it's not hard to see that you are someone worth following. Please," he said, drawing his sword and laying it down in front of her feet. "Allow me to offer my services. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I pledge you my sword, for this day and all days to come. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Daenerys sat back in her chair in shock. She looked down into Ser Jaime's eyes, and saw only sincerity and truth. She folded her hands in her lap. "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth," she returned softly, "and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor." She smiled down at him. "I swear it by the old gods and the new." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Arise, Ser Jaime."

He did so, and sheathed his sword. She frowned. "I would be mad at Tyrion for giving you your sword back," she said, her lips twitching, "but I'm glad he did." She stood, and clasped his hands in her own; the metal of his fake fingers were cool against her palm. "I am honored to have your allegiance, Ser Jaime."

"I am honored to offer it, Your Grace," he returned with a nod. "I hope to serve you proudly and fairly for the rest of my life."

She nodded, and sighed. "Your brother received a raven this morning," she said quietly. "From Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. From King's Landing." She swallowed. "I believe Tyrion was on his way to tell you, but it seems I got to you first."

He bowed his head, and grief etched itself into the lines of his handsome face. "It was the right thing," he murmured lowly, staring at the floor. "The right thing to do." He cleared his throat. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace…?"

She waved her hand. "Of course. Please, take your leave. I hope you'll join us for dinner this evening? If you're feeling up to it, of course."

He nodded jerkily. "Certainly."

As he turned, she put a hand on his arm. "Ser Jaime," she said softly.

He froze. "My Queen?"

"I wanted to make one thing clear," she began, looking him straight in the eye. "There is no dishonor in what you did to my father," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "I know the truth." She swallowed. "You did the right thing. The noble thing." She paused, noting the surprise in his gaze. "Don't ever let anybody tell you otherwise."

He gave a shallow bow, and then shakily descended the steps. She turned, and sat back down at the table.

"That was a wonderful thing you just did, Khaleesi," Missandei said quietly.

"It's the truth," Daenerys said. "He has suffered for that decision for far too long." She sniffed. "It's not right."

"No," Missandei said. "But by showing you forgive him, and accepting him into your service – and now by commending the difficult choice he once made – you've honored him in a way no one else ever has. That's very special." She paused. "Do I have permission to speak freely, My Queen?"

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "Yes, of course."

"You have been different, lately," her advisor said, her dark eyes warm and calm and familiar. "Softer. Not weak, but more gentle."

Daenerys exhaled and leaned back in her chair. She sat for a moment, considering Missandei's keen words of observation. "For years now, I've had one singular goal," she began. "To take my rightful place on the Iron Throne and rule over Westeros fairly and justly. To see the people prosper under my reign." She sighed. "Now that I am here, things are a bit different. It isn't just me anymore. I'm no longer just Daenerys Targaryen, taking the world by storm with my armies and my dragons and all of my friends and advisors," she continued, placing her hand on Missandei's arm. "Now I've got an army of the dead to deal with, a potential marriage alliance, and I have to figure out how to navigate the political waters around King's Landing, so to speak. I've realized, especially after spending some time with Tyrion and Jon Snow and Ser Jaime, that I'm going to have to trade some of my ruthlessness in for forgiveness – forget old wrongs and bad blood in favor of building a new world." She paused. "I want to _earn_ the people's loyalty, not _force_ it," she finished softly.

Missandei nodded, and Daenerys stood, feeling restless. "I thought I might go check on Jon Snow," she said. "Would you care to join me?"

Missandei smiled up at her. "I will go with you if you want me to," her friend said. "But perhaps it might be a good time to speak with him by yourself?" she suggested with a shrug. "Varys did say he seemed amenable to the prospect of marriage when they spoke this morning."

Daenerys nodded, wringing her hands. "Yes, but he spoke of conditions," she said nervously. "What kind of conditions?" She furrowed her brow. "And what gives him the right to make demands?" she added irritably.

Missandei gave her a soft smile. "He is a king, Khaleesi. You have acknowledged him as such, especially with your proposal. He is in a position to make demands. And you are in a position to deny him, of course. But if you want to marry him, then you might have to compromise."

"Compromise," she said, the word unfamiliar on her tongue. "Yes. I suppose since we're turning over a new leaf, we should add compromise to our list of things to practice. If we're going to bury the hatchet, we'll have to do things to maintain the soil over that hatchet."

"That is a decent analogy, Your Grace."

"I try."

oooo

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 **As usual, let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is welcome, but don't be too terribly harsh. I've said it before and I'll say it again: this isn't my best work. Don't set your expectations too high lol.**

 **Thanks guys! Y'all are the best.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	13. Chapter 13

**I'll say it before and I'll say it again: please don't set your expectations too high for this story and then tear into it like I'm about to publish it or something. Like I said before, I started this story just to satisfy** _ **my**_ **yearning for some GoT now that the season has ended. I have shamelessly fallen prey to several silly clichés that I'm not even attempting to avoid, and I've also pulled out the instant gratification card that I rarely play.**

 **I'm glad a lot of you are enjoying it. It warms my heart. And, like I've also said before, constructive criticism is always welcome. But don't get snarky and say hurtful things simply because you don't like a particular aspect of my story. I've never gotten that. If you don't like something, then stop reading it; or simply point out in your review that you don't quite understand why I did what I did and ask a question about it that I can answer in a constructive, healthy way – if it's that important to you.**

 **Or, better yet, go write your own shit that satisfies your standards. Sometimes I read something that has me rolling my eyes with how silly it is – but I'm not going to PM that author and lay into them about how wrong everything is. This is** _ **FanFiction.**_ **There** _ **is**_ **no such thing as "wrong," unless you count horrendous grammar and spelling and such. But hell, if you write a story centered around how Jon Snow gets pregnant with Ghost's child and they rule Westeros together, then more power to you. I might not read it, but I'm not going to sit there and type a whole message or review telling you how what you've come up with is "wrong." It's not wrong. It's** _ **yours.**_ **And I'll just go write** _ **mine.**_

 **Seriously…people just need to chill out. If you want professional grade stuff with good plotlines and realistic characterization, get off the internet and go to Barnes & Noble. Geez.**

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oooo

Tyrion looked up from the remnants of his lunch as Varys slipped through the door, looking furtively around the room to settle on Jaime, who sat opposite him. The bald man spoke immediately.

"Can I have a moment with your brother, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime paused in the middle of his mouthful, and then swallowed. "Sure," he said, his voice still thick and his eyes still red with earlier tears. He made to stand.

"On second thought," Varys interrupted, holding out a hand, "you might be useful. Stay."

Jaime sat back down into his chair, his blue eyes full of wariness. Tyrion narrowed his eyes at his old friend.

"Something bothering you?" he drawled, sipping at his wine.

"Yes, in fact," Varys said sharply, "thank you for asking."

Tyrion sat up higher in his chair, his brows furrowing at the eunuch's tone. "Care to share?"

"What do you know about Jon Snow's mother?"

Tyrion's brows furrowed. "I don't know _anything_ about Jon Snow's mother. No one does. Ned Stark refused to say anything about her."

"I think everyone just assumed she was some tavern wench that died," Jaime said, his eyes sharpening with intrigue that dispelled his grief – if only temporarily.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "What are you suggesting, Varys?"

"I'm not suggesting anything," Varys said, his eyes full of caution. "I'm merely curious. I was in his chambers earlier this morning – discussing marriage – "

"Yes, we talked about this earlier," Tyrion said impatiently. "And you've already spoken to Daenerys about it, what does this have to do with anything – "

"It doesn't have _anything_ to do with this," snapped Varys. "But I very much would like to know why the Queen's dragons have taken to Jon Snow so splendidly."

"They like him," Tyrion said with a shrug, ignoring the strange knot that was forming in the pit of his stomach. "Drogon and Rhaegal, at least."

"Yes, well, the green one shoved his head through the balcony doors just as I was about to leave," Varys said sharply. "And apparently he's been making a habit of it, if Snow's reaction was any indication."

They were all silent for a moment. Tyrion fiddled with his fork, staring down at the table. Finally Jaime cleared his throat. "Are you suggesting that the boy's mother was of Targaryen lineage?" he asked, his tone one of forced lightness.

"Like I said, I'm not _suggesting_ anything," Varys returned coolly. "The interaction was frighteningly familiar. That dragon doesn't just _like_ him. There is a deeper connection there. It was plain to see."

"So what do you expect us to do about it?" Tyrion asked skeptically. "What does it matter, if his mother had some Targaryen blood somewhere down the line?"

"But the Targaryens rarely married outside the family," Jaime said with a shake of his head. "Many of the great houses in Westeros share some ancient ties with the Targaryens, but those unions occurred so long ago that any Targaryen blood that people like you and I have," he said, gesturing to Tyrion and himself, "would be so faint that it wouldn't even count."

"Rhaegar married Elia Martell twenty-five years ago, that was outside the family," Tyrion pointed out. "Still. They only had two kids. Dead now. Daenerys is the last Targaryen."

Varys stared at Tyrion. "Unless…"

"Unless what?" Tyrion scoffed. "Unless one of them survived? Both of us saw those children multiple times. Both Aegon and Rhaenys, despite Martell's lovely southern coloring, still managed to be born with fair hair and purplish eyes. They looked _nothing_ like Jon Snow." He paused. "Besides, how would one of those children have ended up with Ned Stark?"

"I'm not saying Snow is Aegon Targaryen," Varys said with a shake of his head. "The ages don't match up – and you're right, I saw both of those children, and it's impossible for the boy to have grown up to become Jon Snow."

"Then I'm not entirely sure what your point is," Tyrion said sharply.

"Tell me, Lord Tyrion," Varys said slyly. "Out of all the men in the seven kingdoms, who would you say was least likely to take a mistress and sire a child outside of wedlock?"

He frowned. "Everyone has discussed this. We've all speculated for years about why Ned Stark would act so out of character."

"Right," Varys said with a nod. "We all just assumed that he'd fallen in love. But it seems to me like Stark would have returned home and told Lady Catelyn everything, like the honest man he was," he said with narrowed eyes.

"And he didn't tell her anything," Jaime said, looking at Varys with knowing eyes. "He was frustratingly mute about the entire affair. King Robert always bitched about it – wanted to know what girl would be beautiful enough for Eddard Stark to forsake his vows."

"You're suggesting that he didn't?" Tyrion asked, leaning forward skeptically. "You're suggesting that Jon Snow was never Ned Stark's bastard after all? That he brought home another man's child and raised it as his own?" He shook his head. "Why?"

Jaime looked confused. "That idea has no credibility," he said, shaking his head determinedly. "Look at Snow's face. He has 'Stark' written all over him. Everything from his hair to his eyes to his bone structure."

Varys nodded in reluctant agreement. They were silent again, all contemplating.

"This is a dangerous conversation," Jaime finally said. "One that we shouldn't be having."

Tyrion sighed, and leaned back. "Yes. But now it's gotten under my skin." He looked to Varys, whose eyes gave nothing away. "I assume that you've already been asking around?"

"No, actually," Varys denied. "I wanted to talk to you first."

"How uncharacteristically restrained of you," he quipped, taking another sip of his wine as his stomach twisted itself into knots. He sighed. "I don't see how knowing Jon Snow's true parentage will be of any consequence to the matters at hand," he muttered. He cleared his throat and looked at Varys pointedly. "If you go fishing and don't get any bites, pull your reel back before you fall in," he warned cautiously. He looked to Jaime. "Could Bronn be of any help?"

Jaime nodded reluctantly. "I'll ask him to get what information he can. And there are a couple of older soldiers that were around back then, who knew Baratheon and Stark as young men. They might know something." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "If we end up learning something – "

"Then we keep it to ourselves," Varys interrupted. "Unless we three deem it prudent to share." His eyes bore into Tyrion's. "You know I wouldn't bring this up if I didn't have strong suspicions."

"Suspicions based on a man's relationship to a dragon?" Tyrion said, exasperated.

"If you'd have seen it, you would be thinking the same thing that I am now," Varys returned passionately.

"Which is what, exactly?" Jaime asked, his brow furrowed.

Varys inhaled. "That there is something extremely strange about Jon Snow in relation to those dragons," he said determinedly. "And I want to know what it is."

* * *

oooo

Daenerys padded down the hallway in her delicate silver slippers, her dark blue dress floating around her legs. The weather the last few days had been lousy – rain, rain, and more rain – so she was confined to the castle, and had been taking advantage of that fact to abandon the thick coats and trousers and boots she'd been wearing for some of the lighter, more feminine garments she'd donned often in Essos.

She told herself it had everything to do with her comfort, and nothing at all to do with looking pretty for the King in the North.

When she reached Jon Snow's door, she nodded at the two Northmen that stood on one side of the hallway and the two Dothraki that stood on the other side. One of the Dothraki – a man named Gorat – knew some Westerosi, and he was currently speaking in stilted sentences to the Northmen. It appeared that he was trying to teach the men some Dothraki, with varying levels of success.

Upon her arrival, they all nodded their heads respectfully, and one of the Stark bannermen knocked on the door. When there was no answer, they opened it for her, assuming that he was asleep.

Their assumption was correct. Snow was laid out on the bed, his chest heaving and covered in sweat as he appeared to be suffering from a bad dream. A deep whine sounded from across the room, and Daenerys' eyes widened as Rhaegal lifted his head from where it sat on the floor just inside the balcony. It seemed he was trying to get closer to Snow's bed, but couldn't squeeze more of his neck through the doors without breaking something.

Daenerys went to him immediately, surprised at his presence. It was one thing for her dragons to favor Jon Snow – it was another thing entirely for one of them to linger by his quarters. _In_ his quarters. She stroked his nose, and he purred lowly, his eyes flickering to her briefly before he looked back at Jon and continued to strain his neck in that direction.

"Hold on, my darling, you'll hurt yourself," she chastised softly. She looked over to Jon, and her heart broke when he clutched his chest in his sleep and cried out in pain.

She crept over to the edge of the bed, and carefully put a hand on his shoulder. "Jon Snow," she said softly. He did not stir. His face was frozen in agony. "Jon!"

He sat up abruptly, and she leaned back in shock as his head almost collided with hers. His eyes were dark and hazy with anguish, and they sharpened on her face. He blinked, breathing hard, and his gaze cleared, full of confusion.

"Daenerys?"

It was the first time he had ever said her name, at least in her presence. It made her heart do something funny inside her chest. His voice was hoarse and quiet, little more than a whisper, and she swallowed. She sat down on the edge of his bed, and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand into her lap and feeling his pulse race.

"You were having a nightmare," she said quietly, absently running her thumb over the inside of his wrist. It didn't occur to her that she was encroaching on his personal space until her eyes flickered down to his chest, which glistened with sweat. She cleared her throat.

She expected him to pull his hand from her grip, but he didn't, merely laid back down on his back, looking up at the ceiling and rubbing his chest with his free hand.

"Will you tell me what happened?" she asked quietly.

His eyes shot to her face, dark and gleaming and unreadable. His nostrils flared. "You know what happened."

"Not really," she said with a shake of her head.

He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling, his hand still resting in her lap as his breathing slowed. "A lot of the men at Castle Black don't understand the White Walkers and the army of the dead. It's hard to grasp something like that when you haven't seen it with your own eyes. They didn't understand that all of the wildlings I let south of the Wall would have just become wights – more bodies in the Night King's army. At the time, the threat wasn't real to them. All they knew was that they'd been fighting wildlings since the beginning of time, and letting them past the Wall was akin to blasphemy." He swallowed. "Some of the brothers felt that I'd betrayed them. So they betrayed me in turn."

"It's never a betrayal to help those in need, Jon Snow," she reassured him quietly, seeing the doubt in his eyes. "I've found the world to be a cruel place – it often punishes those who choose to do the right thing. But the real betrayal would have been turning your back on the people who needed you." She looked at him earnestly, feeling affection for him swell in her heart.

His eyes flared with something that looked like gratitude. "I know you're right up here," he said hoarsely, tapping a finger against his skull, "but in here, I still have doubt." He tapped his chest. "Not doubt that I did the right thing," he clarified, "but doubt that the right thing wasn't still a betrayal of the Night's Watch."

She shook her head minutely, frustrated – but nothing she could say would be able to heal those hurts. "And this is what you dream about?"

He nodded. "They lured me down into the square. It was snowing. And they'd hung a sign – " He swallowed, and cleared his throat. "It said 'traitor' on it." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I wake up with this pressure," he said, laying a hand over his heart. "Like my heart is going to explode. I still remember how every knife felt as it was plunged into my body." He released a shaky breath. "Nothing was ever the same after that. Nothing."

"No," she said, her voice small. "I imagine not." She sighed. She looked down at his hand, and brushed her thumb over a scar across his knuckles. "Will you tell me about this one?"

His nostrils flared. "I punched a man."

"You…punched a man," she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "A few times."

"How hard did you punch him, exactly?" she asked, thinking of the assassin's bloody face.

"My hand broke," he grunted. "A bone shot straight up through my skin."

She made a face. "That's awful. Who was it?"

At this, his expression grew thunderous. "Ramsay Bolton." He swallowed. "I saw Sansa's body when she arrived at the Wall after her escape from Winterfell." His voice was quiet and rough and full of murder. "There are no women at Castle Black. As her brother, I helped Lady Brienne tend to her." His eyes met hers, and her mouth went dry at the terrifying wrath that swirled in those grey-brown-black depths. "The only parts of her that weren't bruised or cut open were her face and hands. He violated her, raped her, beat her bloody. Carved her up with a knife."

She put a fist to her mouth. "Did you kill him?"

"No," he answered harshly. "Wasn't my place. I gave him to Sansa. He'd trained his dogs to kill people, you understand. He didn't feed them, so that they were savage and hungry. So she put him in the cells with his hounds and watched as they tore him apart."

She stared at him. "It's a rare man that forsakes his own revenge to give that satisfaction to another."

"I would have kept hitting him," he said, staring up at the ceiling once more, his eyes far off in a memory where she could not follow. "I would have kept hitting him until I saw his brains in the dirt. And then I saw my sister standing there, watching – and it wasn't right for me to do it. Sure, he killed Rickon right in front of me, he and his father helped orchestrate the Red Wedding – but Sansa endured far worse at Ramsay's hands."

"She's a strong woman," she said quietly. "To have survived that."

"She's been through a lot," he said. He sighed heavily, and then pulled his hand away from hers, the emotion in his eyes fading to calmness. They were exactly the color of old weathered oak – a dark brownish grey that looked black in dim lighting.

He sat up, and she stood, moving back from the bedside to stand awkwardly next to his breakfast table, wringing her hands nervously as she watched him swing his legs over the side.

He grunted, and stood, and for the first time she was confronted with the full force of his physical magnificence. It was different, seeing him standing as opposed to lying on a bed. He was not a tall man, or overly large, but he was lean and graceful and _powerful_. He moved with purpose, every muscle carefully controlled. Here was a man who knew his own strength, knew his own body, knew how his hands grasped a weapon and his feet climbed stairs. Here was a man who would never stumble, never trip, never miscalculate – never overestimate or underestimate his own grace or skill.

He looked down at the wound on his ribs, and went to touch it. She snapped out of her stupor just in time to slap his hand away. He looked up at her in scandalized shock, and she glared at him.

"Don't touch it," she said firmly. "If I have to have Rhaegal bite your hands off, I will."

"That seems a bit drastic," he returned dryly. Still, he kept his hand away from the dressings. He moved past her, and she turned to watch him go straight to her smallest child, his legs slightly unsteady. Heedless of his audience, Snow wrapped his arms around Rhaegal's snout and laid his head against the scales of his forehead.

Daenerys swallowed. Something shifted in the air – something that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Her heart did something strange when Rhaegal purred and closed his eyes, leaning into Snow's touch just as surely as he would her own.

"How long has he been coming to you?" she asked quietly, moving closer to lay her hand on her son's neck. Rhaegal was the sweetest of her dragons. Always wanting to be close to his brothers, always wanting to be close to her. But he had never shown any interest in people. None except her. None of her dragons had.

Until Jon Snow.

Jon leaned back, and patted Rhaegal on the nose. "Found him on the ledge out there the first morning after we got back," he answered softly. "He's been sleeping there ever since."

She hummed. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes from sliding down to where the waistband of his trousers hugged his lean hips. He was still shiny with sweat, and she noticed two faint scars on his back, the skin puckered and white. His hair was tied back as it had been when she'd met him, but this time it was short enough that it barely worked. She couldn't decide if she liked it better this way, pulled back in a knot, or when it was loose and curly, framing his face.

"I was wondering," she said, her eyes moving back to where Rhaegal lay looking at Jon with adoring green eyes, "if you'd be up for a chat."

His entire demeanor changed. He swallowed, and his arms folded across his chest. His eyes reflected a certain wariness that she wanted to wipe away. "Yes," he said slowly. He gestured around the room. "Make yourself comfortable."

She was sure he expected her to take a seat in one of the chairs at the table, or in the padded chair next to his bed – but instead she sat _on_ his bed, crossing her legs and enjoying the way his eyes suddenly darkened in response, smoldering with something that had her pulse racing.

He sat in the chair next to the bed, and Rhaegal withdrew his head from the room to rest it back on the balcony, still watching them with kind yellow-green eyes. The light rain that pitter-patted against his scales did not seem to bother him.

Jon cleared his throat. "So. Marriage."

She nodded, her nerves flaring to life. "Yes," she said, wiping sweaty hands on her dress. His eyes followed the movement. ""Marriage." She paused. "Varys said you had conditions."

He nodded, and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the bed. He poured another and offered it to her, and she accepted it with a nod of thanks. He was still shirtless, which was _entirely_ unfair – and totally distracting. But the injury on his side was still shiny with ointment, and asking him to put a robe on would give away her attraction to him. So she forced herself to look at his face, sipping at her water as she faked calmness.

She continued to sit as he explained his terms – keeping her anger and pride in check. When he was finished, she cocked her head.

"Why are you so certain I don't know how to rule the North?" she asked, pushing down her fury over the "dictator" that he had casually dropped in association with her name.

He steepled his fingers. "In the same way I'm certain I wouldn't know how to govern Mereen," he said, his tone even and amiable. He was a very agreeable kind of person. Easy to like, easy to get along with. Even when he was looking the Mother of Dragons in the eye and making demands.

It was kind of irritating.

Her nostrils flared. "I will learn – "

"Yes," he interrupted sharply. His tone was not unkind, but was serious. "You will learn. With help," he added. "From me." He sat back in his chair, looking far more at ease than she was feeling. She didn't like it. Usually he was the one that looked uncomfortable, and she was the confident one. "Like I said before, it will have to be a partnership."

He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. "I very much would like to settle back into the life of a soldier and not have to worry about ruling _anything,"_ he said softly. "I very much would like to see you sit on the Iron Throne – you and you alone. But the reality is that I _am_ King in the North, and that can't change just because I wish it. I now have a responsibility to the people of the North - and now the Riverlands as well, and the Vale. Therefore, as much as I would like to hand the reins over to you, I simply can't do that."

He paused. "You are a strong, capable woman," he continued, his voice soft and his eyes sincere. Her heart tripped. "As I've said before, you will make a fantastic queen. You were made to rule. It's in your very nature. But I won't have you brush aside my counsel like you sometimes do with Tyrion or Varys. Any decisions that are made will be made _together._ My guess is that we'll see eye to eye on most things. But in the cases where we have a difference of opinion, I expect there to be discussion and compromise on both sides."

She swallowed, and thought of Missandei's words earlier. _He is a king, Khaleesi,_ she had said. _You have acknowledged him as such, especially with your proposal. He is in a position to make demands. And you are in a position to deny him, of course. But if you want to marry him, then you might have to compromise._

She looked into Jon Snow's eyes. His stare gave her confidence – empowered her. She nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "That's it? No 'I'll have my dragons roast you alive' or 'I'm going to string you up somewhere north of the Wall' or 'You're going to rot in the dungeons for the rest of your life'?"

She felt anger and offense rise within her until she saw the way his lips quirked. She scowled, and threw a pillow at him in a childish move that would have had Tyrion shaking his head in disappointment. He caught it easily, his reflexes those of a hardened soldier.

"I'm _not_ that bad, Jon Snow," she said hotly, narrowing her eyes.

"No," he denied easily, grinning. His smile was achingly beautiful, and she wanted to bottle it up and keep it to herself. "Close, though."

She glared, and then she was smiling as well, and they both chuckled softly before he tossed the pillow back on the bed and got to his feet. She stood as well, and realized that they were only a foot apart before he quickly stepped away.

"I'm going to wash," he said, not meeting her eyes, "and then I thought I'd walk some before dinner, start to get my strength back. I'd like to hear more about your experiences in Essos, if you'd care to join me. I found some of the Dothraki customs that you mentioned in our conversations last week interesting. I'd like to know more about them and their government."

Her eyes widened a fraction, and her heart stuttered. He had been listening to her. When they'd conversed, he'd _actually_ been listening.

She was Daenerys Targaryen. She was used to being listened to – when it mattered. When she was the _queen._ But she had never really been listened to before just as a _person._ Daario had had the attention span of a fly, sometimes. As much as she had loved Drogo, he didn't often want to just _talk_ to her. Missandei sometimes did not grasp the complexities of certain things. Tyrion was always so worried about the state of affairs that it was hard to have a conversation with him that _wasn't_ about her campaign. And Varys was never really _around;_ the Spider was always working from the shadows _._

But Jon Snow had been listening the whole time, and for some reason this was the revelation that pushed her over the edge.

She was starting to fall in love with him.

She nodded jerkily. "I'll send someone in with warm water for a bath, and fetch the maester to redress your wound." She smiled up at him, her heart pounding out a rhythm on the inside of her ribcage. "I'll wait in the conference room."

He walked her to the door, and as she exited she didn't think she imagined the feel of a hand trailing along her floating skirts, as feather-light as the fabric itself.

oooo

* * *

 **So I was made aware recently that in the books, Viserion is described as being the mildest, most agreeable dragon, and Rhaegal a bit more difficult. I haven't read the books, however, and no such distinction is made in the show, so I kind of just made up their personalities.**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks for all your kind words of encouragement and advice!**

 **To NacyBadVamp: I generally try to update this story every day. This weekend I am visiting my family, however, and so I won't have the same amount of time to write as I did before. So I might fall behind just a bit. Hopefully not. But maybe.**

 **Here's some light-hearted Jonerys interaction just for you! Just some talk. Nothing especially exciting.**

* * *

oooo

"This one."

"White Walker."

"Really?"

Jon smiled. He was enjoying this side to Daenerys. The soft, compassionate, curious side. "Whacked me with his staff, and I went flying from the loft of the house to the ground. Split my face open down the side," he said, running a finger down his right temple. "Pretty sure I broke a rib or two as well, and my back has never been the same."

She grimaced, leaning against the rail and looking out over the training yard. Rain fell steadily around them, _thum-thum-thumming_ as it hit the tin awning over their heads. "Sounds unpleasant."

"You should see the other guy," he said jokingly. In truth, there was nothing funny about what had happened at Hardhome.

"Did you kill him?"

Jon nodded. "That's when I found out Valyrian steel can kill White Walkers and wights, and withstand the shattering cold of their weapons." His nostrils flared. "That was the first time I saw the Night King."

"Where was that?" she asked softly.

"Hardhome," he responded. "It was a massacre. Not many made it out alive. Probably the most terrifying experience of my life. Just…chaos. Death." He released a shaky breath.

"What about that one?" she asked, pointing to the other side of his face.

"A hawk." He turned towards her, leaning sideways against the rail and staring at her profile. She really was stunning, he thought. Unfair to the rest of the women in Westeros. She even outdid his sister, which was an impressive feat – Sansa was widely known as one of the most beautiful women on the continent. But Daenerys had a different kind of beauty: ethereal, unearthly, like a goddess born from a union of fire and moonlight.

She turned towards him fully. "You mean the bird?" she asked with a frown.

"Aye," he said with a grim smile. "A wildling warg. When I killed him, he warged into his eagle and attacked me from the air." His smile faded as he thought of Ygritte – of the look of betrayal on her face.

Daenerys lifted her hand, and he remained stock still as she trailed a finger over the faint lines that split around his left eye. His eyelid twitched, and he curled his fingers into fists to keep himself from doing something foolish.

Like touching her back.

Of course, he would be touching her at some point regardless, he remembered surreally. Because they were going to be married. Husband and wife. And that involved –

 _Mind out of the gutter, Snow,_ he said to himself, willing his body not to react. _There'll be a time for that, and it isn't now._

"What is a warg?" she asked.

"Someone who can enter and control the mind of an animal," he explained, meeting her eyes as she trailed her fingers over his cheek. "Birds, deer, foxes, wolves – my brother has this gift. It's uncommon amongst the people of the North – unheard of amongst southerners."

"A few weeks ago I wouldn't have believed you," she said with a small smile. Her smile faded. "What about the two on your back?"

He was saved from answering by the dinner bell. He gave her a tight smile. "Perhaps we should join the others for dinner?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Of course." They turned together, and she grabbed his elbow as they started to walk. "I didn't mean to pry."

"That's alright," he answered, the memory of Ygritte not nearly as hard to deal with now that years had passed. "I just haven't thought about those in a while. Bad memories." He opened the door from the training yard to inside, and bent his arm. She slipped her hand inside the crook of his elbow with ease, and they continued to walk slowly, passing a handful of Dothraki and Northmen and servants along their way. "What about you?" he asked. "Any scars with interesting stories attached?"

She smiled faintly. She paused, and he stopped, looking down to where she pulled her dress up to her knee, displaying her leg for him to see. There was a small white mark on her ankle. "My brother attacked me once," she murmured lowly. "Threw me to the ground. My ankle got caught on a necklace that was lying on the floor, and the clasp cut me. It wasn't serious at all – wasn't deep enough to need stitches, didn't even bleed enough to warrant a wrapping – but still managed to leave a scar."

"He sounds like a real gem," he muttered sardonically, his eyes glued to the pretty turn of her ankle.

She giggled. He liked her laugh. "He was awful. But he was my brother. I couldn't help but love him, even as Drogo had him killed for threatening to hurt me." She held out her arm. There was a pink mark on her wrist. "I got this in Qarth," she said. She shivered. "In a bad place."

He did not ask about it. "Those are the only ones?" he asked incredulously. "Surely with all of your conquering and dragon riding and the like you've sustained a few more."

She frowned. "There's a scratch on my back," she said conversationally. "So thin you can barely see it. When the Vaes Dothrak came crashing down while it was burning, a piece of wood fell from above and scraped the skin between my shoulder blades." She shrugged. "As far as I'm aware, that's it. I've been lucky, I suppose."

His nostrils flared as he thought about what the naked expanse of her back would look like, about tracing his fingers down her scar as he fucked her from behind –

He cleared his throat. "It's interesting," he said. "I've found that people tend to romanticize scars. But if you think about it, no scar has ever been a pleasant experience. There's nothing romantic about war and White Walkers and abusive brothers and burning buildings."

"No," she agreed, her tone sounding surprised. "I suppose there isn't. I'd never really thought about it before."

Boldly, he took his other hand and laid it over the one on his arm. He felt her stumble, and belatedly wondered if she was as unsettled by his proximity to her as he was. If Tyrion and Varys were to be believed, she _did_ like him, or was attracted to him, at least – but she always seemed so confident, so sure of herself. The most nervous he'd ever seen her had been earlier this afternoon, when she'd sat down on his bed to discuss marriage – knowing very well that she would be _in_ his bed, at some point.

He was curious about her history with men. He knew she'd been married, and he'd heard that she'd had a lover in Essos, a famous warrior who was the leader of a mercenary group. A warrior who was rumored to be nearly as good as the likes of Jaime Lannister and Jon himself; perhaps, according to some, even better.

He thought he might like to meet this Daario Naharis, if it weren't for the fact that the man had shared Daenerys Targaryen's bed for over a year. But if he were going to marry her, he didn't want to have any sort of competition. He imagined that Naharis had stayed in Mereen for a reason – that he had not accompanied her to Westeros because Tyrion and Daenerys knew it was a bad idea to have any romantic complications if they were going to cement an alliance through marriage.

Smart. Jon knew that _he_ at least would not be pleased to have to look at the face of the man that had once slept with his wife.

 _Wife._ Gods. He just couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"Will you tell me about your life north of the Wall?"

He looked at her and raised his eyebrow, her hand warm where it was sandwiched between his arm and his palm. "Have you ever imagined freedom?"

"Freedom?" she asked with a frown. "I am free."

"No," he denied easily. "Neither of us is free. We never will be. We are slaves to the people, slaves to our positions in life, slaves to our responsibility. Imagine not having to worry about any of that." He exhaled, and pictured the white wilds of the true North. "You'd only worry about what to eat, where to sleep – staying safe. The free folk do whatever they want. They follow whomever they want – if they choose to follow anyone at all. Women can carry whatever weapons they choose and aren't judged for it – and if they blacken a man's eye because of an insult, no one thinks twice. They sleep all day, if they want. They lie with whoever they want to lie with – take this woman one night, that one the next." He shrugged. "They live in structures that you can put up and take down in only a couple of hours. They move wherever they want, _whenever_ they want."

"Sounds liberating," she said quietly. "Strange. It reminds me a bit of how the Dothraki live."

"A similar concept," Jon said, nodding. "But the Dothraki society is extremely male dominant – until you came along, that is," he said, his lips twitching in amusement. "Wildling women are terrifying. Just as soon kill you as look at you."

Suddenly her eyes flashed and her pink lips curved into a smirk that made him nervous. "I heard you were quite popular amongst the wildling women," she said coyly, looking sideways at him through thick black lashes that framed her strange eyes.

He stumbled, caught off guard. "I…what?" She threw her head back and laughed, and he felt his ears and cheeks burn uncomfortably. "I don't know where you heard that." She raised her eyebrows in skeptical amusement. He looked away hurriedly, mortified. "I was fresh meat," he said gruffly. "That was all. I was something different. They tired of the chase eventually."

"Really?" she said, sounding anything but convinced. He made the mistake of looking over at her again, and got caught in her searching stare. "So they gave up, did they?"

No. They had not given up. Ygritte and Tormund had loved to tease him for it. He cleared his throat, and whipped his head around to look forwards. He saw Jaime and Tyrion conversing quietly in the great hall, standing in the doorway.

"Ah," Tyrion said, upon their approach, saving Jon from continuing the awkward conversation. "Can I assume that you've come to an agreement?" he asked, looking back and forth between Daenerys and Jon with shrewd green eyes.

Jon nodded, and they all started to walk to the front of the hall. "Hasn't been put into writing, or anything. But yes."

Tyrion looked pointedly at Daenerys. "You find everything to be agreeable?"

"I find everything to be _acceptable,_ " she said, lifting her chin haughtily as she pulled her arm from his and sat. Jon sniggered, and she sent him a cold glare. His laughter turned into a cough, but he could see the reluctant humor in her stare.

"Good," the dwarf said as he and his brother pulled chairs around the table so they could talk more easily. "I'll have Varys draft up a contract – then we can sit down together and iron out the details. I suspect you'll want Ser Davos there, as your closest advisor?" he asked, looking at Jon.

Jon nodded, swallowing. "And Sansa."

"It will take her nearly three weeks to get here," Tyrion protested, reaching for the wine.

"Then we will wait three weeks to sign the contract," Jon countered, staring the dwarf in the eye. "I want Sansa to be here. In the mean time, we can plan the wedding – and organize a war council." He looked to Jaime, who was watching him curiously. "I'd like you to be part of it, naturally. The Lannister forces will be under your command, of course, but you'll also take the Tully army. Edmure is a passable soldier and commander – but we need more than passable. He knows this. He's willing to operate as an officer under your command."

Jaime nodded seriously. "And who else will be included?"

"Qhono and the Dothraki generals," Jon said, nodding over to the massive Dothraki that stood in the corner, watching his queen with a protective gaze, his eyes occasionally scanning the room as men trickled in, lured by the prospect of food. "Grey Worm. Edmure. Yohn Royce. Ser Davos. Tormund. Beric Dendarrion and Thoros of Myr. The Hound. My friend Edd, the current Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Ser Jorah Mormont. Lord Manderly – he's got the best cavalry force in the region." He sighed. "You, Lord Tyrion, and the queen." He paused, and looked at Jaime. "What do you know about Euron Greyjoy?"

"Other than that he's insane?" Jaime said, his eyes flashing with hatred. "I'd run him through with my sword right here and now, if I could." He sighed. "But he's a brilliant tactician."

"Greyjoy can't be trusted," Tyrion said with a shake of his head. "Just like Cersei, he'd stab us in the back at the first chance." He paused. "If we can get Yara back…"

Daenerys looked pained. "What's the likelihood of her still being alive?"

"Strong," Jaime answered confidently. "He wouldn't kill her unless he had an audience – he'd particularly want his nephew to be present. He's sick like that. She's still alive – probably sitting in a dungeon somewhere." He swallowed. "Or worse."

The queen chewed her lip. "How do we get her back?"

"Offer Euron something he can't refuse," Tyrion mused with a shrug. "Now that Cersei is dead, we can easily take control of King's Landing without bloodshed. His options are limited."

"The only thing he'll want that we have to offer is her," Jaime said, gesturing to Daenerys. Jon stiffened minutely at the idea, his hand going to the hilt of his sword out of habit.

"Don't worry, Jon Snow, no one is going to steal her away from you," Tyrion said mockingly.

Jon glared at him, his irritation overcoming his embarrassment. "Don't get smart, Lannister," he said dangerously, running his thumb over Longclaw's wolf-head pommel. "Or it might not be Greyjoy that needs protecting."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Point taken," he said dryly. "Although we all know you like me too much to actually hurt me. So," he continued, ignoring Jon's eye-roll, "we don't have anything to offer Greyjoy in exchange for his niece."

"Except for his nephew," Jaime mused.

"No," Jon said harshly, narrowing his eyes. "I won't trade Theon off like a lamb for slaughter."

Tyrion scoffed. "It's a credible idea. And after what he did to Winterfell – "

"I could just as easily hate half the people on this island for some atrocity committed against my family," he bit out. "Theon's done a lot of bad things. He paid for them with years of torture at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. And he helped get my sister out of Winterfell, out of the hands of the monster that – " He stopped himself short, before his anger got the best of him. "We've put our history to rest. Just as everyone else has done – or should do, if they haven't already – in favor of defeating the Night King and establishing a better world under Daenerys' rule." He paused, letting his words sink in. "And if we're going to create that better world, we need to start by not giving in to the demands of sick fucks like Euron Greyjoy by trading one sibling for another. We have armies, we have dragons, and – as much as I dislike the idea of sending Arya out to murder people – we have a highly trained assassin. I won't sit back and play the vile game that we've all been playing for years now – it's time to end this. We have a goal; let's achieve that goal with the least loss of life possible and without sacrificing our honor."

The four of them sat for a moment, and Jaime's gaze fell to the table. Tyrion stared at a spot over Jon's shoulder, seemingly lost in thought. He could feel Daenerys' eyes on the side of his face, but he clenched his teeth and did not look at her.

"You're right, of course," Tyrion said softly, coming back to the moment. "You make very good points."

"Even though we might not even need Yara or the Iron Fleet – as you said, the dead will attack by land," Jaime said, "we can't march off to fight the White Walkers and just leave Euron out there with his ships. Just as Cersei would have taken advantage of the situation and used our absence to conquer Westeros while we're off sacrificing everything in the North, Euron will take control as soon as we turn our backs. He needs to be eliminated in the same manner." He exhaled. "We've as good as secured the Iron Throne for the queen," he continued, nodding at Daenerys. "The people of Westeros had no love for Cersei. They'll switch allegiances quicker and easier than blinking. But as soon as we leave King's Landing unattended, Euron will move in and take the Throne for himself."

"And there's no way we can gain this man's loyalty?" Daenerys asked quietly. "Is there no way he can be reasoned with?"

Jaime looked doubtful. "I've met him on a few occasions now, Your Grace," he said, disgust written plainly across his face. "He's the worst sort of person. And I say that knowing full well who my own father was, and knowing the likes of Walder Frey." He looked at Jon. "Was Ramsay Bolton a reasonable man?"

Jon narrowed his eyes. "No," he said, his voice clipped.

"It's a similar concept," Jaime said. "You can't reason with a madman." He exhaled shakily. "Or a madwoman."

"So we kill him," Tyrion said tiredly. "How?"

"If he was holed up on Pike, Lady Arya could get to him," Jaime said. "It wouldn't be easy, but it would be doable. Unfortunately, the last I saw, he was waiting in Blackwater Bay for orders from my sister." He paused. "If he hasn't learned of her death already, he will soon."

"Will he come back to King's Landing when he hears?" Tyrion asked.

"Not right away," Jaime answered. "He'd wait for news on who stepped up to the plate. If we sail down to King's Landing, he'll go back to the Iron Islands and plan his next move from there. If we make no move to claim King's Landing, he'll take it."

Jon frowned. "You've said he's a smart man. What ever made him side with Cersei in the first place? As we all know, Daenerys could have taken Westeros upon her arrival. But she didn't, because she didn't want to destroy the lives of innocent people. But surely Euron didn't think that she'd hesitate to burn his fleet to a crisp?" he pointed out.

"Smart, not sane," Jaime said with a shake of his head. "What Euron wants more than anything is to be king. When he found out he had no chance with Queen Daenerys, he moved on to my sister. A queen is a queen – you marry one, you become a king. In theory. He was probably thinking that he could kill my sister as soon as he got what he wanted: the crown, and possibly an heir."

"I'm sure it never occurred to him that she might murder him first," Tyrion suggested. He and Jaime looked at each other, and shared a smile tinged with both irony and sad nostalgia.

"So we do exactly as you just said," Daenerys said coolly, looking at Jon. "We burn his fleet to a crisp."

"And what about Yara?" Jon said impatiently. "We don't even know where she is. She could be on one of those ships."

Daenerys looked thunderous. Not at him, thank the Gods, but angry all the same. "So we fly to his fleet and scare the information out of him. We won't have to destroy the fleet. Just find his ship and land a dragon on it. He'll be talking before I even have to threaten him. Then we figure out where Yara is, rescue her, kill Euron, and put Yara back in charge of the Iron Fleet, reinstating our alliance."

Tyrion rubbed his forehead. "I'm sure I don't need to point out all the ways in which this might go wrong," he said tensely. "It's far from a foolproof plan. It's messy." He looked at Jaime. "Euron isn't hiding any special dragon-killing devices on one of his ships, is he?"

"No," Jaime said definitively. "Only two scorpions have been made since Drogon destroyed the one with my army," he said. "I saw them both in the Keep just two days before I left." He paused. "Euron isn't stupid, though. He'll have thought of something as a line of defense. Hell, he might have developed a weapon of his own. His people are skilled ship builders – I imagine they could master a weapon like that fairly easily. I just don't know."

"So we'll go at night," Daenerys said, anxiety flashing briefly in her eyes before it was replaced with determination. "I can take two more people on Drogon's back with me. I wouldn't have to go alone."

"Who would you take?" Tyrion asked.

"Me," Jon said immediately. "I'll go."

"That's absurd," Jaime said skeptically. "Risking both the queen and future king? Do I have vetoing powers?" he asked, raising his golden hand, his eyes dancing with both amusement and incredulity.

Jon sat back, knowing he was right. He turned to Daenerys. "It's a huge risk. It was a big enough risk to send you to the Reach to ambush Ser Jaime and the Tarlys," he said. "And you had thousands of Dothraki to back you up, just in case. You wouldn't have an army with you here. And your dragons _are_ vulnerable. At least to a weapon with that sort of weight and firing power."

"So what if you go instead?" Jaime said suddenly, looking at Jon, his blue eyes gleaming with cleverness. "The green dragon likes you."

"Rhaegal?" he said, jerking in his chair. "Erm, yes, I suppose."

"Would he let you ride him?" Tyrion asked, leaning forward in his chair as his eyes sharpened on Jon's face.

He cleared his throat, watching Daenerys through his peripheral vision. "Yes," he said softly, feeling the truth of it in his heart. "I believe he would."

His future wife stiffened beside him. He dared not look at her face. Was she displeased, he wondered? Jealous? Or was she merely surprised, and perhaps relieved? He didn't know. He wasn't ready to find out.

"It's not up to me, though," he said before anyone could speak. "Rhaegal isn't mine to command. He's not anyone's to command. Even if Daenerys were to approve it," he said, his eyes flickering quickly to his right, "he might not agree to it."

Tyrion's eyes slid over to Daenerys, and finally Jon turned in his chair, swallowing. She was looking at him, her gaze entirely unreadable. Usually he could get some read on her emotions – right now he had no idea was she was thinking.

"Why don't we eat?" Daenerys finally said, her voice giving nothing away. "Then Jon Snow and I can take a walk down to the cliffs to consult with my dragons, now that the rain has let up."

"So you'll consider it, then?" Tyrion asked hopefully.

"Yes," she said with a nod. "Although I'm not sure what difference it makes – _which_ one of us will go. It's the same risk either way."

"It's not," Jon denied, shaking his head. "We've discussed this before. Your life is more valuable than mine. And Drogon is bigger than Rhaegal. Logistically, the two of us going is less of a risk to both your campaign for the Iron Throne and the coming fight against the Night King. You and Drogon are more important than me and Rhaegal – " He cleared his throat, wincing as his heart twanged painfully.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Daenerys said softly, looking at him knowingly. "The prospect of him being harmed."

Her striking eyes were soft and calm and full of understanding. He stared into them, confused. He did not answer – he did not know what to say.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "I'll prepare a raven for you to send to Sansa," the dwarf said. "She can meet us here to go over the contract – and stay for the wedding."

Jaime cleared his throat. "Should we plan the wedding here, or aim to have it in King's Landing?"

"Logistically here is better," Jon said roughly, feeling uncomfortable talking about it. "But for appearances' sake King's Landing is more ideal."

"The most prudent question to ask is how long we think we have before the Night King marches on the Wall," Daenerys said, raising an eyebrow. He noticed a slight tremor in her hand as she reached for a bunch of grapes, and took comfort in the fact that perhaps she was nervous, as well.

"He won't march on the Wall," Jon said with a shake of his head. "The magic that keeps the dead from getting past is still too strong for him to bypass it. He'll wait for the ocean to freeze over, and then cross at Eastwatch."

"And how long do we have until that happens?" Tyrion asked.

Jon shrugged. "Tormund thinks two months, give or take. They'll have to be careful, make sure the ice is thick enough – wights can't swim. And it would take the White Walkers far too long to try to organize the building of enough ships to carry them all. It also depends on what sort of magic the Night King can manage to conjure up. So a month and a half, worst case scenario – two and a half to three months best case."

"Always plan for the worst," Tyrion said. "Let's plan to hold the wedding here. But we'll certainly want to spend at least a few days in the capital, talk to the people there, give them a moment to adjust to the new reality. Then Jaime can escort the Lannister forces north – "

"Why not have it at Winterfell, then?" Jon interrupted, tapping his fingers on the table. "Dragonstone has to be accessed by boat, which logistically, for something like a royal wedding, is a nightmare. And we're all going to be headed north anyway, for the coming war. And, out of all of the people in Westeros, who are the ones hardest to please? The ones whose trust Daenerys will have the hardest time earning?"

"The Northerners," Daenerys said flatly, her tone flat with an undercurrent of resigned irritation. "It makes sense to hold the wedding there, so they can see their king approach the altar willingly; assured that he isn't being bound and dragged in chains or threatened by a hovering dragon."

Jon grinned, unable to help his amusement with her assessment. She was not wrong. "Aye, might be more prudent to do it that way." He looked to her, and she met his gaze. "See? You're already learning how to govern the North."

Her eyes widened, and then she smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she playfully swatted him in the arm. "I'm not sure I like it when you joke," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It's strange."

"Very," Tyrion agreed, looking between them curiously. "Get back to brooding, Jon Snow. Don't let me see this happen again."

Jon glared at him, and then took a long drought of his wine. "I like to laugh too, you know," he muttered irritably. Still, he was unable to be annoyed for long when he was so charmed by the smile that made Daenerys' eyes shine just so.

Jaime hid his smile behind the rim of his cup. "So I suppose we've all got a great deal of things to do," he said, his voice weary but hopeful. "Shall we get started?"

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 **Thanks for reading!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**So last chapter I got some comments regarding Daario Naharis' skill in combat. I'd thought that he was considered to be one of the best warriors in all of Essos and Westeros – I'm pretty sure I got that idea from a YouTube theory video I watched, though. As I've said before, I haven't read the books or done much research on the lore. So I apologize for my mistake, and I already went back and worded it differently so it makes more sense. Thanks to those who pointed it out.**

 **Special shout outs to Basker, Daranak, and romeosami7, who have been consistent in reviews and PMs and the like. I appreciate how invested y'all have gotten and how helpful you've been. It's a lot more than I would expect for a story like this.**

 **On with the show!**

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As soon as Jon stepped outside the gates, Rhaegal swooped down to land next to him. Daenerys stared at her smallest son, her heart slamming against her ribcage as her emotions went every which way.

What was she supposed to think about this? What was she supposed to do, now that she knew for a fact that Rhaegal had bonded with Jon Snow?

And it was a fact. It was plain to anyone with eyes – but as Rhaegal's mother, she would have known even if she were blind. She could feel it in her heart. One great golden-green eye glanced over to her briefly as he bumped Snow's shoulder with his snout, but otherwise it was like she didn't exist.

She felt something cool and wet at the back of her neck, and she turned. Wolf stood behind her, his nose pressed to her nape. She rubbed him fondly on the neck.

"Have we been replaced, sweet thing?" she murmured next to his ear. He merely looked at her and blinked, and then trotted off, giving her dragon a wide berth as he passed through the gates and disappeared around the corner of the wall, his nose pressed to the ground.

She looked up, and Drogon flew low overhead, coming to land in the grass next to his brother, swinging his head close to Jon Snow in brief greeting before turning to his mother. She rubbed him on the head and sighed.

So her dragons liked Jon Snow. So one of them had bonded with him. This was good, wasn't it? They were to be married. For the rest of their lives, presumably, if everything went to plan. And her children weren't going anywhere.

It might actually be nice, sharing her bed with a man who wasn't afraid of her dragons; a man who might actually be able to take to the skies with her, fly out over the ocean perched on Rhaegal's back as she sat astride Drogon. She had always been alone, in this way – it had been all right, before, because it set her apart. Because she was Daenerys Stormborn, and she was the Mother of Dragons, and only she could ride them. But that had been when being alone had suited her, and it suited her no longer.

She was tired of being alone. She wanted someone to share things with – and that included her children. And now she had that someone.

Any and all jealousy that had been burning in her heart dissipated like steam in the winter air.

"I'd like to take Arya," Jon said, squinting up at the sun before turning back to her. His hand rested casually on Rhaegal's neck. "Perhaps Euron will cooperate when I land a dragon on his ship. Perhaps not. If not, I need someone with the patience and the stomach for… _interrogation_ ," he said delicately, avoiding the word 'torture.' "We need to know where his niece is before we kill him and potentially destroy his fleet."

She shivered. "The fact that your sister is what she is still unsettles me," she said softly, coming to stand next to him and patting Rhaegal on the neck as Drogon got bored and trundled over to the edge of the cliff to dive off.

"Me too," he returned softly.

"Do you think she'll be alright flying?" she asked, looking into Rhaegal's eyes and understanding that he was okay with it. Something that Jon Snow had realized upon contact.

"She's pretty gutsy," Snow said with a fond smile. "Even if she were scared, she'd never admit to it. But she isn't scared of much."

She nodded, her nostrils flaring. She ran her hand down Rhaegal's neck until it rested next to Jon's. Their pinkies touched. He did not remove his hand, and she did not remove hers; her eyes caught on the poorly stitched cut that ran between his fingers and down the back of his hand.

She turned, and realized just how close he was standing – their faces were only inches away. Her lips parted as she met his eyes; they shone grey in the setting sunlight, dark like slate, touched with the warmth of underlying brown hues. It was interesting, how they could look black one moment, brown the next, grey the next. Obsidian, mahogany, charcoal.

"How do you feel about it?" His voice was low and rough, and it made her skin flush.

"About you and Rhaegal?" she clarified needlessly. She shrugged, and tore her eyes away from his, the intensity of his stare doing strange things to her body. "I like it."

His eyebrows drew down. "You like it?" he asked dubiously.

She nodded hurriedly, angling her body into his as the wind kicked up. Kindly, he took the cloak from his shoulders and swung it around her frame. She pulled it tight around her, relishing in his smell. "Thank you," she said softly. "And yes. I like it. I like that he's found a friend in you. I like that I'm not the only dragon rider in the world anymore." She looked up at him through her lashes, feeling uncharacteristically shy. "I like that I'm going to marry a man who not only gets along with my dragons, but is bonded to one of them. You've no idea how special that is, Jon Snow," she said, looking at him earnestly. "There are millions of people in the world. The chances of even one person _touching_ my dragons so familiarly without being roasted alive or bitten in half are beyond slim. The chances of someone actually _bonding_ with one – I'd thought it impossible."

He blinked, his eyes shifting. "I'm honored," he said. "Really, I am." He sighed, and removed his hand from Rhaegal's neck, his fingers brushing hers as he did so. She followed suit, and her second-oldest son turned from them and dove from the cliff, taking to the air to join his brothers. Viserion was just a small golden speck in the sky above them, barely visible as the sky began to darken, pale blue fading into indigo as streaks of color painted the clouds pink and orange and purple.

"Are you nervous?" she asked suddenly, unable to control her mouth. She blushed darkly.

"About dragon riding, or about marriage?" he asked, his teeth shining whitely as he smiled at her. They stood looking at each other for a moment, and then moved as one back towards the gate. "More nervous about the second," he said jokingly.

"You've never been married before, correct?" she clarified.

"No," he replied congenially, his eyes on the grass as they traversed the cliffs. "It had never even crossed my mind. As a boy, I knew not to hope for marriage, or at least a good one – I was a bastard. Then I took the Black, and it was a done deal. Getting married and having a family was completely out of the cards." He sighed heavily through his nose. "It's surreal, thinking about it. Knowing that I'm going to not only be married, but wed to the most important and most powerful woman on the face of the earth. It's such a giant turn-around from what my life was supposed to look like."

She stopped suddenly, and put her hand on his arm. "Jon," she said softly, using his first name alone for the first time. "There's something you should know, if Tyrion or Varys hasn't already told you."

He looked at her questioningly. "What is it?"

She inhaled shakily, looking down at his shoes. "I can't have children." Her voice broke slightly on the last word, and she kept her eyes cast down in shame.

He was silent for a moment, and then she felt his fingers around her own – he squeezed, and she quivered. "That's alright," he said quietly. When she looked up, his eyes were sincere. "We'll figure something else out for succession."

There was no disappointment in his stare. Not even a spark. She trembled. "Really?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Of course," he said with a sharp nod. "We can start a new system." His grip tightened on her hand, and he started to walk again, pulling her along beside him. "Who rules the country shouldn't be based on blood, anyways," he scoffed. "Honestly. Joffrey became king because of who his father was – or at least who people _presumed_ his father to be, at the time. Do you think he was a good king? No." He shook his head. "Your father was king because of who _his_ parents were, and we know that _he_ wasn't a good king. It's about damn time ruling became about competence rather than blood."

She blinked rapidly, staving off tears. "You are a good man, Jon Snow," she said quietly, her voice hoarse. She squeezed his hand.

He squeezed hers back. "I try to be," he said softly. "I don't always succeed." He looked up as it started to drizzle again. "Come on," he said, tugging her hand and quickening his steps. "Let's get inside before it starts pouring."

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oooo

Three days passed – he spent them sitting with Rhaegal, talking war and politics with Jaime, Tyrion and Varys, walking around the castle with Daenerys, and sleeping as the wound on his side continued to heal.

On the third day, Arya's ship appeared on the horizon. He sighed in relief, and went down to the beach to greet her. They embraced, and spoke for a moment, and then he sent her up to her quarters to bathe before dinner. As soon as she was out of sight, he turned to Gendry and shoved him hard in the chest. The bastard boy reeled back, stumbling before he righted himself, looking at Jon in shock.

"I like you," Jon said through clenched teeth, tamping down the irrational fury that rose in his chest. "And I can see how you feel about her, and how she feels about you, and I'm not about to get in the middle of it." He glared into the other man's bright blue eyes. "I don't care how independent Arya is," he continued, clapping a hand to Gendry's back and urging him to walk alongside him as Ser Davos lingered to oversee the rest of the landing party. "You won't be sleeping with her again unless you marry her."

"I – how did you – " Gendry swallowed, looking bashful. "I'm not sure she'll agree to that."

"She doesn't have to agree," Jon said, seething inside at the prospect of Arya being with any man – even one he liked. "In a month, I'll be married to Queen Daenerys, making me _king._ I haven't spoken to her about it yet, but I fully intend on legitimizing you and making you the lord of Storm's End – if that's something you're interested in, of course," he added. "Regardless of where you end up, if Arya wants to stay in Westeros, with you, she'll marry you. I won't have my sister being the equivalent of someone's mistress. If she wants to play at being an adult, complete with the perks of sex, then she'll have to accept the responsibility of being a wife." The words were sour on his tongue.

"I'm on board a hundred percent," Gendry said enthusiastically, striding alongside Jon with his hammer in hand. "I love Arya. Have for a long time. But how do I bring it up with her? How do I know if she even _wants_ to marry me?"

Jon sighed. "Talk to her. If she has an issue, you can send her to me. She can rage about it all she likes – as long as she calls herself Arya Stark, she's the highborn daughter of Eddard Stark and sister to the future king. Therefore she has to take responsibility for that title – which means, at the very least, not having children out of wedlock." He looked pointedly at Gendry, and the man had the decency to look ashamed. "Now if you don't want to become a lord, and just want to settle down as a blacksmith somewhere, then that's fine. You'll marry my sister regardless." He paused. "Tell me," he began again, stopping to face his sister's lover. "Do you like being a bastard?"

Gendry swallowed, understanding filling his eyes. "No."

"Me neither," Jon said firmly. "And do you want to subject your children to the same existence?"

Gendry shook his head.

Jon put a hand on his shoulder. "Then get a handle on your self-control, and turn my sister away the next time she comes to you unless she agrees to marry you. Understand?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the blacksmith said, staring into the sand beneath his feet.

"Good," Jon said tersely.

"How did you know that – "

"She's my sister," Jon answered sharply. "I know her." He paused. "And she doesn't normally walk so bowlegged."

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 **Short chapter, but the next one will be up tomorrow or Wednesday, depending on when I get back to Raleigh this evening and how much time I have to write. Traffic is gonna suck, y'all. Labor day weekend on I-40 or I-85 is just terrible.**

 **Anyways, thanks for reading. You are all wonderful.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**The next couple of chapters are especially lazy. I apologize.**

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oooo

"You have no right – "

"I have every right." Jon leaned back against his balcony rail, absently rubbing Rhaegal on the nose as Arya fumed in front of him.

"I don't want to be married."

"Oh?" he said skeptically, feeling anger bubble beneath the surface of his skin. "That's good to hear. I was starting to worry that you'd grown up too fast – now I know that you haven't grown up at all."

"Being an adult has _nothing_ to do with getting _married – "_

"No, being an adult has _everything_ to do with being _responsible,"_ he hissed, seething. Rhaegal groaned quietly from beside him, sensing his ire. "What were you planning to do with the bastard that you inevitably end up having? Throw it in the gutter and then wash your hands of the entire ordeal and ride off to continue your oh-so-free life as an assassin? And what about Gendry? You were so upset when he left you all those years ago – and yet you're going to do the same to him. Do you imagine that he'll just accompany you around the world as you kill people? What about what he wants? What if he wants to get legitimized and claim his birthright and become Lord Baratheon of the Stormlands? What if he just wants to settle down as a blacksmith somewhere and have a family?"

She swallowed, her eyes hot with emotion.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I had a woman, once," he said softly. "I took a wildling lover. She'd already had many lovers before me, and had bore no children – and she didn't bear any of mine, either, before she died. I loved her. And I was stupid. I didn't think about the prospect of getting her with child. The wildlings don't care about the same shit we do, so perhaps it wouldn't have been as big of a deal up there as it would have been here. But I was still reckless. And at the time, I was nothing more than a bastard in the Night's Watch." He narrowed his eyes on her. " _You_ are a woman. And not just a woman, but a highborn lady."

"I'm not a – "

"As long as you claim the title 'Arya Stark of Winterfell,' you are a lady," he said harshly. "At least in name. I will never force you to wear dresses, or curtsy and simper and act the fool – I wouldn't have you any other way than you are now. If you want to abandon all titles and travel the world as an assassin and sleep with whomever you want, so be it," he said, throwing his hands up. "You have my blessing, and you are always welcome in my home. But if you want to be a part of this family – want to be a Stark, and bring honor to your father and mother – then you'll have to be more responsible. If you have a child out of wedlock, I won't love it any differently," he said passionately. "Neither will Sansa or Bran." He paused, let his words sink in. "But I thought you were better than that," he said quietly. "I never thought you would condemn a child to the life of a bastard. Gendry didn't just turn you away because I asked him to – he could very well have just ignored my words and kept it a secret. But he was raised a bastard, like me. And you dishonor both of us, as well as the Stark name, by not having the decency to care about it."

Her bottom lip quivered. Fat, silent tears leaked from her eyes to roll down her cheeks, and he stepped forward. "I don't mean to be cruel, Arya," he said softly, skimming his thumb over her cheek to swipe at her tears. "But this is serious."

She nodded, and then stepped back from him. Her eyes hardened. "When did you want to leave?" she asked quietly, her voice thick with tears.

He sighed. He had told her about the Greyjoy mission at dinner. "We'd both better get a good night's sleep," he said tiredly. "We'll leave tomorrow afternoon. We'll want to approach the fleet after night falls." She nodded, and turned. "Dress warmly," he added as she strode towards the door. "We'll be flying high and fast."

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oooo

"I wanted to speak with you about something before I left."

Jon swallowed as Daenerys turned to face him, once again clad in one of the thick dresses she'd been wearing when he'd met her. He rather missed the way she looked in the summery gowns she'd been donning as of late; he told himself it didn't have anything to do with how it left more of her skin bare to his gaze.

The more he became accustomed to the prospect of marriage to her, the more he craved her. His desire had become a ravenous beast, and it shocked him how much he wanted her. He often found himself staring at her, drinking in the details of her physical form; wondering how soft her hair was, how her lips would move against his, how her breasts would feel in his hands, how her sex would taste on his tongue.

It was driving him mad.

She looked up at him with soft blue eyes, stroking Drogon on the nose as the wind picked up around them. The black dragon trundled over to Jon, nosing at him aggressively until Jon caved and scratched him on the sensitive skin under his chin. Daenerys smiled softly.

"What is it that you wish to discuss?" she asked, walking closer to him.

"Storm's End."

She frowned. "Storm's End?" she questioned bemusedly. "What about it?"

He sighed. "I have a particular person I'd like to name as lord of the Stormlands, after this business with the Night King is all said and done. Of course, as per our agreement, it should be a joint decision."

"Shoot," she said with a small smile.

"I know you hate the Baratheon family with a vengeance," he hedged. "But remember when we talked about not judging people based on their fathers' crimes?"

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Are you telling me that one of the Baratheon brothers has a living heir?"

"A bastard," Jon said, swallowing. "Robert's bastard."

Her nostrils flared. "And this son of Robert Baratheon – he's a good man? You trust him?"

"Aye," Jon said. He paused. "I trust him enough to marry him to my beloved sister."

Fierce intelligence gleamed from those bewitching eyes. "You speak of Gendry Waters."

"Yes," he confirmed. "He's an honorable man. Knows nothing about ruling – grew up in Fleabottom, as a smith's apprentice. He may very well want to remain a bastard, and have a simple life as a blacksmith somewhere; he hasn't really given me a solid answer, but I think he's interested. He's got the makings of a leader. With some guidance, it would be a good fit. And he's loyal to this campaign. He would be a solid supporter during your reign, we could count on him."

" _Our_ reign," she corrected mildly, absently picking a piece of lint from his cloak in a motion that was achingly familiar. "I'm most certainly open to the idea. I can talk to him, while you and Arya are gone?"

Jon nodded. "Try not to scare him too badly," he teased, his lips twitching. "And you might want to leave Drogon behind. You're intimidating enough as it is." When she drew herself up to her full height and started to scathingly protest, he brought his hand up to brush his thumb across her temple. She froze, her eyelids fluttering and her mouth parting as her gaze flashed with something deep and languid and mesmerizing. "It was a compliment," he murmured with a smile.

He dropped his hand when Rhaegal screeched from above them, and instantly missed the feel of her skin. He looked behind him, and Arya was walking towards them, Tyrion striding purposefully alongside her.

Rhaegal landed next to his older brother with a thud. He immediately stuck his neck out and growled menacingly at Arya, who froze in her tracks, looking at the dragon with wary eyes. Then, just as Jon had done weeks before with Drogon, she lifted her hand and placed it cautiously on the green scales of his snout. His nostrils flared and then he swung his head away and lowered his body down so that she could climb up his wing. She did so with only a little hesitation, scrambling up to sit astride his back, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Try not to do anything stupid and reckless," Tyrion said with a long-suffering sigh. "Remember, you have to stop thinking like a foot soldier and more like a king. So try for a little bit of self-preservation."

"I'm not really sure I know how to manage that," Jon said with an ironic smile. "Self-care hasn't really been at the top of my list for quite some time. But I'll give it a go."

"You do that," Tyrion said with a sharp nod. "When in doubt, listen to your sister. She's a bit more sensible than you, although not by much." Arya looked down on the dwarf with a scowl.

"Please be careful," Daenerys said lowly, brushing his fingers ever so briefly with her own. "All three of you. If things take a turn for the worse, get out of there. We'll figure something else out."

He nodded, meeting her intense stare. He had trouble tearing his gaze away. He cleared his throat, and then rubbed Rhaegal on the neck. "Here goes nothing," he muttered. He stepped onto his dragon's wing, and then climbed onto his back, sitting in front of Arya and grasping the two spikes at the base of Rhaegal's neck as he'd seen Daenerys do before when riding Drogon.

He wondered, belatedly, when he'd started thinking of Rhaegal as _his._

As soon as he was situated, Rhaegal began to move. Daenerys and Tyrion stepped back, mindful of the giant scaled creature that crawled towards the edge of the cliff like a bat. Jon caught Daenerys' eyes one last time, and then held on for dear life as the green dragon let out an almighty roar and dove off the cliff.

And then they were flying. _Flying._ Jon sucked in a breath, the air cool and crisp in his lungs as his sister squeezed him tight around the middle. The feeling of a living, breathing beast beneath him as he took to the air was like none other he'd felt before. He shuddered when Rhaegal's wings unfolded, wheeling them gracefully out over the ocean.

A roar sounded from above him, and then another from behind, and Jon looked up. Viserion was a speck in the sky above, glittering like a golden medallion in the late afternoon sun. He looked back – Drogon dove off the cliff behind them, swinging around to fly to their right.

It was everything. Everything, everything, everything. Rhaegal rumbled beneath him, and he felt their connection down to the very marrow of his bones, felt it rush through him like fire. He leaned forward, wrapping his hands tighter around his dragon's spines and squeezing with his legs as the thrill of being airborne flooded his body.

He could feel Arya trembling behind him, pressed up against his back. "Are you alright, little sister?" he asked, having to shout to be heard over the whistling of the wind as they climbed higher and higher, Rhaegal's muscles flexing beneath them as his wings beat powerfully against the air.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice tinged with fear. "At least he's warm."

He was warm. It was like sitting on a stone that had been soaked in hot water. The wind whipped their faces, turning their noses red with the cold, but their bodies were kept warm by the dragon fire that lived inside the great green beast beneath them.

"He won't let us fall," he assured her, turning his head so she could better hear him. "Just trust him."

"I trust _you,"_ she muttered into his ear. She turned her head to the right. "Nice of his brothers to see us off."

Jon turned, and Drogon was looking at him from a few meters away, climbing high into the sky alongside his younger brother. Viserion tracked them from above, but when Jon looked at him he turned back towards Dragonstone.

"They've grown to care for you," Arya continued. "The dragons, I mean."

"Yes," Jon said hesitantly. "In their own way."

They were silent after that, and eventually Rhaegal leveled out, flying above the clouds so that they would be nearly invisible to any ships on the sea below. Drogon whined lowly, and Jon looked at the black dragon one last time and lifted his hand in farewell as the behemoth dropped down below the clouds and out of their sight.

They were truly alone, now. Just the three of them, with only the whistling wind and the misty clouds for company.

oooo

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 **Next chapter will be up Thursday morning. Thanks for reading! Please review if you feel so inclined.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	17. Chapter 17

**Sorry I've been absent the last couple of days! Life. Ugh.**

 **I just wanted to say: everyone who has been/is being/will be affected by all of these horrific storms that are hitting the U.S. and the Caribbean, please be careful. I'm not a particularly religious person, but I'm praying for all of those who are in danger and I'm hoping that you can all stay safe. Also, my heart goes out to all of those killed in the earthquake in Mexico on Thursday.**

 **Thank you to all of you who so sweetly say that this story isn't lazy – but get ready to have your mind changed. This might be the laziest chapter yet. Please be prepared for shamelessly rushed plot advancement. I don't even care. This is more about relationships than anything else, and I just don't have the energy to write much in the way of plot.**

 **Also, keep in mind that I haven't read the books, hence why this is posted under the Game of Thrones category and not ASOIAF. I always appreciate getting more information about the books from reviewers; i.e. "In the books, Viserion is actually the mildest and smallest of the dragons." That's reasonable and polite, and it gives me information that is helpful for the accuracy of future fics. But don't roll your eyes and sneer and nag me about little facts that I get wrong in my story, because I'm just making this shit up as I go along and don't really have the time for research.**

 **Special shout out to RandomFandoming, who always makes me chuckle. :)**

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Euron Greyjoy was exactly as Jon had pictured him in his mind: an arrogant sociopath with a cruel smile and the same grey-blue-green eyes as his nephew and niece.

The sailors had tried to defend themselves, but Rhaegal had been so silent and invisible in the dark of night that they hadn't had any warning. As soon as the green dragon had landed on Euron's ship, he'd grabbed the dragon-killing weapon they'd invented with his mouth and then had proceeded to fling it over the side with a roar of fury.

It hadn't taken the men on the ship five seconds before they were dropping their weapons. One thing Jon had learned about the ironborn over the years – they changed allegiances as quickly as blinking. There was very little loyalty to one leader; at least not if they felt someone else could give them a better life. They were fickle; they had thrown Yara and Theon aside like trash and had latched onto Euron – and it wouldn't take much for them to throw Euron out, either.

They were cowards. Personally, Jon thought Yara Greyjoy was above leading such a pathetic people. Jon wouldn't trust them as far as he could throw them – not when they showed themselves incapable of standing beside their leader in the face of adversity.

It was over quickly. Arya merely tied Euron to a chair and started to pry his fingernails off with her Valyrian steel dagger, and he blurted out his niece's location with a snarl.

Word spread quickly throughout the fleet, men shouting over the sides until each ship had raised a white flag. Jon carried an emaciated Yara up from the brig, getting her some water and wrapping her in a blanket to keep her from catching cold.

Then Arya slit Euron's throat with an easy flick of her wrist, and they tossed his body over the side – as close as a proper ironborn send off as Jon cared to give the man.

For men without honor did not deserve honorable funerals.

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oooo

Yara did not forgive her brother.

She had secured her people's allegiance with a condescending sneer, her eyes hard and cold and unforgiving. Then a third of the fleet sailed back to Dragonstone, and the other two thirds moved in to populate the waters around King's Landing. One of the more honorable officers in the fleet – who, according to Yara, had been trying to conspire with a few others to break her out and overthrow Euron – was left in command of the bigger half, and was charged with meeting with the people of King's Landing to prepare for Daenerys' arrival. Jaime had already sent a missive to Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, who, as commander of the Lannister forces now that Jaime was temporarily absent, had been instructed to surrender the city to the ironborn and fly the Targaryen flag where the Lannister lion had once waved.

Yara was amongst those who sailed back to Dragonstone. Arya rode with her, and as much as he didn't like leaving his little sister alone with a bunch of scum, he knew she didn't much like flying with him – and that she could handle herself just fine. She and Yara seemed to bond some on the way – both strong, independent women who preferred men's clothing to women's.

But when they arrived in Dragonstone a few days later, Yara's reunion with her brother was not a happy one.

She acknowledged him only with a glare, and then commenced ignoring him entirely. Theon avoided her, spending a lot of his time down by the sea or sometimes with Jon, when he was free. Jon found that he didn't mind the company – and preferred the humble version of Theon to the arrogant boy he'd grown up with. Theon also seemed to find a tentative friend in Missandei, who was kind to him and told him stories of her life in Essos and Naath.

Daenerys only came down briefly upon their arrival home, welcoming Yara warmly and apologizing for what had happened to her. She gave Arya an affectionate squeeze on the arm, and then brushed her fingers over the back of Jon's hand, her feather-light touch giving him chills. Then she disappeared back up the stairs, and he watched her go, puzzled.

It was barely noticeable, but Jon had spent so much time looking at her over the past few weeks that he knew every nuance of her face – and she had definitely been crying.

When the island had calmed down enough and things were running smoothly in regards to their new guests, Jon sought out Tyrion.

"Can I speak with you for a moment?" he asked the dwarf, gesturing with his head over to an alcove where they wouldn't be overheard.

"I'm glad your trip was successful," the Hand of the Queen said, sipping from a chalice of wine.

"Aye, me too," Jon said with a nod. "Couldn't have gone much smoother." He paused. "What's going on with the queen?" he asked lowly.

Tyrion hesitated, and then spoke, choosing his words carefully. "She's been…a bit under the weather."

Jon frowned. "People don't usually cry when they're 'a bit under the weather.' Especially someone as tough as Daenerys."

Tyrion's nostrils flared, and he sipped again at his wine. "She is having womanly problems."

Jon cleared his throat, and blushed. He shouldn't be blushing, really. Talking about things like this shouldn't bother him anymore – not after being with Ygritte (who was far too open about such things) and having two sisters. Still, it managed to make him uncomfortable.

"She's having her menses," he ventured.

The dwarf nodded in confirmation. "Which sometimes renders women…" He trailed off, unable to find the words.

"Yeah," Jon muttered.

"Normally something like this wouldn't upset our dear queen," Tyrion said, "but this is the first time she's bled since before she got pregnant nearly seven years ago."

Jon's eyes widened. "What…" He swallowed. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Could be a freak occurrence, or some sort of strange illness," he said casually. "Or it could mean that she's not as infertile as she thought." He took another sip of his wine. "Either way, I imagine the emotions are running a bit high. Especially since she's soon to be wed."

Jon exhaled shakily, hope kindling within his heart. Perhaps she could have children. _His_ children.

He had not been that disappointed when she'd told him that she was barren – simply because for most of his life he had never expected to have children of his own, so there were no hopes to have been dashed. But now the seed of possibility had been planted firmly in his mind, and it changed everything.

"Is she up for visitors, or should I leave her alone?" Jon asked anxiously. He had learned how to please a woman physically, but he was always at a loss when it came to women and what went on inside their heads. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ Ygritte's words bounced around in his head. She had been right, at least on one count.

"I think she might be up for a visit from _you,"_ the dwarf replied. "But perhaps give her a few minutes. And take something with you – food, wine, whatever. She missed dinner this evening."

Jon nodded. He followed Tyrion's advice, and waited half an hour before climbing the stairs to her chambers, carrying a tray laden with fruits and cheeses and bread. He nodded to the Dothraki that stood outside her room. When Qhono knocked on the door, Missandei opened it.

"Your Grace," she said to Jon with a bow of her head. "The queen isn't up for any visitors at the moment – "

"Let him in, Missandei."

Jon peeked past Missandei and saw Daenerys sitting at her table absently pulling on a lock of unbound hair as she stared out of the opened balcony doors, watching the last bit of sunlight fade over the ocean with a solemn expression on her face. To his surprise, Ghost was lying at her feet; when he saw Jon, he bounded to his paws and trotted over to nose at his master's shoulder. Jon held the tray against his waist to free up one of his hands so he could scratch the direwolf behind the ears. Then the wolf went back to Daenerys, dropping unceremoniously onto the rug at her side and putting his head in her lap. She brought one hand down to pat him on the nose.

Jon stepped further into the room, not sure what the proper response was to a situation like this. He cleared his throat.

"I'm not here to stay," he said softly. "Just wanted to bring you something to eat. Didn't know if you might be hungry." He strode over to her table and set the tray down in front of her. "Tyrion said you were feeling under the weather. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Her eyes slid over to him, her gaze full of weariness. "You could sit with me for a while."

He blinked, surprised. "If that would please you," he said, feeling equal parts honored and nervous.

"It would," she murmured lowly.

He sat, trying in vain not to feel uncomfortable. He wasn't always good with women and their emotions. He had once helped bathe his sister, and then had wrapped her in the softest blanket he could find at Castle Black and had held her in his lap and rocked her as she'd cried and cried and cried and eventually had fallen asleep in his arms. But Sansa was his blood. She was his sister. As was Arya. He could touch both of them freely and casually, offer them comfort and advice and a shoulder to cry on.

Daenerys Targaryen was not his sister. She was his betrothed – but she was a mystery to him. He felt like he had gotten to know her a lot better over the past few weeks, but there was still this distance between them; a distance now riddled with tension. He could not reach over and put his arms around her, could not kiss her forehead and tell her everything was going to be okay, could not wipe her tears away with callused thumbs that would surely scrape the soft skin of her cheeks.

Would his hands be too rough for her, he wondered? Would they feel too harsh against her skin? He knew her previous lovers had both been warriors – so perhaps not. But Jon was more than just a warrior; he was a laborer, and, perhaps most importantly, a Northerner. His hands were not only scarred and callused from fighting with a sword for years – they were dry and cracked from the bitter cold, and the fingernails were jagged from years of manual labor. They nearly always looked soiled; perhaps because he had never gone long between baths without doing something to get them dirty again. He was incapable of remaining idle, always needed something to occupy his restless fingers.

He would not sit on a throne very well, he imagined. Perhaps he should take up needlepoint.

"What has you smiling?"

He was jolted out of his thoughts by her soft inquiry, and realized his amusement had made itself known on his face. Her eyes were soft and calm and questioning.

He cleared his throat. "I was just thinking about my hands," he said honestly, feeling a bit foolish. "About how awful they look, because of how restless I get. I can't keep them clean for a minute. And I was thinking that I might need to get Sansa to teach me some needlework, so I have something to keep them occupied whilst sitting in the throne room."

She cracked a smile, and it felt like a gift. His heart warmed. "That's funny." She huffed out a chuckle, and her teeth showed slightly behind her lips. "The image of you sitting in the throne room and sewing as you try to patiently listen to your constituents' concerns is…"

"Attractive, I'm sure," he said teasingly. "A seamstress for a husband – I know it's all you've ever wanted in a spouse."

This time she outright laughed, and her eyes sparked to life as she grinned. "Oh, yes," she said mock-seriously. "Finally. A man to make me pretty dresses and mend my clothing for me." She nodded to him determinedly. "I'm glad I can help you realize your dream." She looked over to Missandei, who was sitting at the vanity chair and stitching something, her lips curving in amusement as she listened to their conversation. "Missandei, I'm afraid you've been replaced."

Missandei nodded, unable to help the smile that stretched across her cheeks. "I understand, Your Grace. I have heard great tales of Jon Snow and his skill with needle and thread." She looked down to his left hand, which was resting on the table. Grateful for Arya's steady hands and precision with a blade, he'd let his sister cut his stitches and pull them out. The mark was still angry and red, but at least it was closed and, most importantly, not infected. "Although I _am_ glad to see those ugly stitches gone," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Dreadful needlework."

Jon chuckled, and then looked out the window as Drogon flew close to the castle, screeching. Rhaegal and Viserion followed him, snapping at each other playfully as they each tried to steal each other's fish. Daenerys smiled. "I don't think your hands are ugly," she said quietly. Then, "How did you like flying?"

Jon closed his eyes. "It was the most fantastic thing I've ever done," he said hoarsely. "It was…everything."

Daenerys nodded in understanding. "The first time I rode Drogon, it was like I was in a dream. There was nothing but the two of us. Every worry disappeared, every memory was forgotten. It was like being on another plane of existence. I wasn't Daenerys Targaryen anymore," she said faintly. "Just a girl on the back of her dragon." She looked at him, and her eyes flickered. "I'm going to ask you about something," she said solemnly. "Please don't hesitate to tell me if I've overstepped my bounds."

He cleared his throat, and nodded, his heart skipping.

"Will you tell me about your woman?"

Old, familiar pain flared to life in his chest. He closed his eyes, a dull ache beginning to pound behind his eye sockets. He cleared his throat. "Ygritte?" he asked hoarsely. He opened his eyes.

"Yes," she said quietly. Her gaze was full of regret. "I'm sorry," she said hastily, "I shouldn't have asked – "

"It's alright," he interrupted softly. "I…" He swallowed. "It doesn't hurt so bad, anymore," he said honestly, rubbing at the scar over his heart. "My love for her – it's faded into memory, now." His nostrils flared, and he looked down at the table. "No more than a dream."

"What was she like?" Daenerys asked gently.

Jon smiled. "Wild," he said amusedly. "Free. With red hair, a sharp tongue and a mean right hook." He frowned. "It's a different world, beyond the Wall," he continued. "Breeds a different sort of people." He cleared his throat, and looked up to meet her eyes. "I burned her body beyond the gate," he said hoarsely. "Up in the True North, where she belonged."

Tears gathered in Daenerys' eyes, but she blinked them away. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She grabbed his fingers with her own. "I know the pain of losing the one you love."

He smiled tightly. "She was the first woman I ever loved," he said tenderly. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand and squeezed her fingers in return, marveling in their warmth. He stared into her periwinkle eyes, and felt his heart stumble. "But I suspect she won't be the last."

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 **I think Euron is a fascinating character. He's so delightfully awful, and somehow manages to be a unique villain even though we've had some** _ **fantastic**_ **villains (Joffrey, Ramsay, Cersei, Tywin). So it felt kind of wrong to just kill him off so quickly without even a smidgeon of dialogue, but, like I said, this is primarily about relationships – particularly that of Jon and Daenerys. So maybe if I write another Game of Thrones fic (which is likely) I'll do a more in-depth character exploration for Euron Greyjoy.**

 **Anyways, thanks for reading! Try not to be too disparaging in your reviews – I know this left a lot to be desired.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hello all!**

 **I'm so sorry I got behind on this. The everyday updates are getting harder to maintain, because I don't have any more prewritten material. My posts caught up to my writing, so all of a sudden I didn't have anything to offer you. But hopefully the next chapter will be up in a few days.**

 **The other day I got an interesting guest review for chapter 13 that I thought I'd just address briefly** _ **. "**_ _ **I like your fic but i cannot get further on it. What is it with ppl, who ignore Dany's very real, very ongoing suffering in her life? What is this notion, that she needs to humble herself, after all she has been thru, to be likeable or acceptable? Why can she not be ambitious without being cursed for it? Why can we not see her as a leader? As you are showing Jon, but not her? Why? Why is this such a thing?"**_

 **I agree that Daenerys should be able to be strong and ambitious. That's part of who she is. However, I also think that she has to learn to embrace her softer side if she is going to be a good leader. One thing that GoT viewers have been noting with increasing concern over the last couple of seasons is her tendency to want to take harsh action against those who have wronged her (when Tyrion has to counsel her against killing thousands of innocent people in response to Yunkai's attack on Mereen, when she burns Randall and Dickon Tarly alive, when Jon and Tyrion have to talk her down from flying the dragons to the Red Keep, etcetera). She is a fierce, independent woman who has been shaped by incredible life experiences, of both a positive and negative nature. She is a dragon. However, if she wants to earn the people's love and respect, she'll have to learn how to temper the dragon and try to embrace her softer side. Otherwise, even though her heart is in the right place, she'll end up alienating people just as Cersei has, ruling solely with fear and intimidation. So yes, as much as I think that she is a grade A badass, and that she has been through so much and has come out stronger on the other side, she will have to endeavor to be "likeable" and "acceptable." Any leader who operates on strength and pride alone will find their leadership short-lived. At the end of the day, likeability and humility are just as important as ambition and power. Also, keep in mind that Daenerys is very much** _ **human,**_ **and she has self-doubt and fear just like everyone else; that's part of what makes her interesting. Sociopathic robots don't make for very good protagonists, in my opinion.**

 **That person brought up a good point.** _ **I**_ **don't feel like I've written her as being weak and pathetic – just human – but I'll certainly endeavor to keep more of an eye on her characterization from now on to make sure I haven't really screwed her up. I appreciate the comment, even if I don't 100% agree with it. But please, as I've said before, I welcome opinions like this. It keeps me alert and aware of my own writing. As always, let me know what you think; writers are only as good as their readers think they are.**

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oooo

Daenerys sighed, looking into the mirror as Missandei braided her hair back from her face.

"Do not be nervous, Your Grace," her advisor said. "You have nothing to worry about. The people will see you for who you truly are, and they will fall in love with you as we all have."

She smiled tremulously at the reflection of her friend, wringing her hands. "But what if they don't?" she said anxiously, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

"If you can get the most honorable man in Westeros to fall for you, Khaleesi, the rest of the world doesn't stand a chance," Missandei said with a gentle smile, sliding the last silver pin into place in Daenerys' white-blonde hair.

She shivered. "Jon Snow isn't in love with me, Missandei," she said with a minute shake of her head, moving to her bed to pick up her cloak. "I believe he fancies me, and I'm hoping that some day he'll love me – but not yet."

Missandei raised a skeptical eyebrow. "If that is what you want to believe, Your Grace."

Daenerys huffed impatiently. It would be foolish to think that Jon Snow loved her already, after such a short time. _She was the first woman I ever loved – but I suspect she won't be the last._ He had looked into her eyes and had held her fingers in his own as he'd said it, but it was hardly a declaration of love. She was sure that he had come to care for her, in his own way; but then, they were to be married – so was it even real? Or was he forcing himself to come to terms with it, and putting forth a façade to make her more comfortable?

No. He was not the kind of man to lie. As Missandei had said, he was honorable – if he didn't actually have feelings for her, he wouldn't try to fake them. He would simply be kind to her and treat her with respect. But he had been interested in getting to know her, which meant he was interested in having a relationship with her, which meant that he liked her enough to make an effort.

Besides, she saw the way he looked at her sometimes. It was always brief, but occasionally she would see a flash of hopeful longing in his dark eyes – a look that reflected her own desire.

And _Gods,_ she wanted him. She wanted him so badly her whole body ached with it. She wanted to dip her tongue into his mouth to taste him, wanted to feel his rough hands scrape across her skin. She wanted to be married to him, wanted to fly the skies with him, wanted to laugh and share stories and lie in bed as he kissed his way down her body.

 _Apparently he did this thing with his mouth…_

The words that Missandei had repeated after she'd overheard Tormund speaking about it reverberated in Daenerys' skull. What was it, exactly, that he did with his mouth? She had sometimes used her mouth to pleasure Drogo, and had heard vague rumors of men performing similar acts on women, but neither of her lovers had ever done such things to her. Was that what Tormund had been referring to? Or was it something else? It had plagued her mind for weeks now, and she just _had_ to know.

"So why isn't Jon Snow going to King's Landing with you?" Missandei asked, tying Daenerys' cloak around her neck.

Daenerys sighed, disappointment swelling within her. "He's going back to Winterfell to help his sister prepare for the wedding," she said sadly. "And not just the wedding. He's been absent for far too long. He has other matters to attend to in the North, including preparations for the long winter and for the war. We have a lot to do in a very short amount of time – we decided it would be better to divide and conquer."

"Will he take Rhaegal with him?"

Daenerys smiled. "I think he would be hard pressed to leave Rhaegal behind," she said with a smirk. "Dragons do what they will. Jon Snow has little choice in the matter."

"And how many days will we be in King's Landing before we ride north to join him?" her advisor asked.

"As few as possible," she answered. "With Jaime on our side, the transition of power in the capital should be smooth. After we secure things there, we'll head north for the wedding – and the coming war. We don't have time to drag our feet, so I imagine three or four days in King's Landing – at the very most. Optimistically, no more than two."

"And Ser Jaime says it takes about a month to ride from King's Landing to Winterfell?" Missandei asked.

"Yes, but we'll be sailing," she said. "The journey from King's Landing to White Harbor will take us seven days, the winds be kind, and then it is an additional week to Winterfell by land."

Missandei grimaced. "I am not anxious to be back on a boat."

Daenerys smiled at her. "You could always ride with me, on Drogon. I don't doubt that he'd allow it."

The pretty advisor shook her head rapidly. "I will gladly sail before I climb on the back of a dragon, Khaleesi," she said, her eyes anxious. "Meaning no disrespect. I don't have the constitution for flying, I'm afraid."

Daenerys chuckled. "No offense taken. I understand that flying isn't for everyone." She sighed, and looked in the mirror one last time, patting her hair out of nervous habit. "Shall we?"

Missandei smiled, and opened the door.

* * *

oooo

As people milled about in the square, Jon put a gentle hand on Arya's elbow.

"I have a favor to ask," he hedged.

She turned to him, and gave him a wry smile. "You want me to go with Daenerys to King's Landing."

He exhaled. "Yes." He lowered his voice. "I know that her own guards would die for her, but no one is as observant or as quick as you. It would ease my fears if you were to stay by her side. Of course, it's up to you."

She nodded brusquely. "Okay."

He smiled. "Thank you, Arya." He grimaced. "I don't mean to pry, but have you thought about what we talked about?"

Her nostrils flared. "I'm…struggling." She cast her eyes to the ground. "He's decided to take you and the queen up on your offer for the Stormlands. And I'm just not sure that's the life that I want."

Jon nodded. "I understand." He brought his hand up to cup her cheek. "It all comes down to what you're willing to give up. If your independence is more valuable to you than getting married and having a title and being in love, then more power to you. That's your choice. But, as you said before: love is a funny thing. It's not always so cut and dry." He kissed her gently on the forehead. "Just make sure you make the right decision for _you._ Not for anyone else."

She nodded. His conditions from earlier still stood – if she wanted to sleep with men while unmarried and risk getting pregnant, then that was her prerogative, and he would never love her any less; but she could not do that as Arya Stark.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," he added before she could walk away. "Just food for thought: Gendry's acceptance of lordship hinges upon your decision. He's said that he won't marry anyone else but you, and that if being his lady wife isn't what you want, then he'll just abandon everything to follow you to the ends of the earth." He smiled. "I suspect he'd persistently pester you until you at least agreed to marry him. He can be rather obnoxious when he puts his mind to it, you know."

Arya's eyes widened. "Why didn't he tell me this?"

Jon shrugged. "I suspect he wanted you to make the decision on your own, without influence of any sort from him."

She released a shuddering breath. "I would make a terrible lady," she said quietly. "You know I would, Jon. I don't have the patience for it."

"You have the patience for stealth and torture and assassination," he said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "I think it's safe to say that you're fairly patient." He shrugged. "I think you'd adjust. I think you'd be atypical, and might upset some people along the way. But different is what we need right now. Daenerys is different. She's ushering in a new world order. Everything will change." He smiled, and patted her on the shoulder. "I think you might be better at it than you think. But you might not want the responsibility, and that's okay. I don't blame you." He ran an affectionate hand over her hair. "Just think about it. Take your time – Storm's End isn't going anywhere. Right now it's being looked after by a vassal of the Baratheon family – Lord Errol."

She nodded. "Maybe it's good that I'm going to the capital. Maybe some separation from Gendry is what I need."

"I imagine he's quite a distraction," Jon said in jest, leaning back.

She swatted him hard on the arm. "Don't make it weird, Jon." Then she gave him a hug. "I'll see you in a couple of weeks. Love you, big brother."

"I love you too."

His farewell to Daenerys was short and sweet: she clasped his hands in her own, and he brought them up to his lips. There were no words between them – they didn't need them. Then he rubbed Drogon on his nose, climbed up Rhaegal's wing, and closed his eyes in elation as they took to the air.

At least he had Rhaegal – having the dragon with him helped ease the ache that had started to form as soon as he'd known he was going to be separated from Daenerys.

That was when it occurred to him that he was slowly but surely falling in love with her.

* * *

oooo

Jon thought that if the people of Winterfell hadn't known about his alliance with Daenerys, Rhaegal would be taking a whole host of arrows to the chest. As it was, they were still shocked when the green dragon touched down in the courtyard just inside the gates and _Jon_ was the one to climb off.

Sansa was there immediately, and he caught her in a close hug and pressed a kiss to her cheek, uncaring of all the people that gathered around. "Sister," he murmured against her hair. It was a relief to see her alive and well. He hadn't liked leaving her alone with Littlefinger whispering in her ear – but he'd spoken to both Brienne and Yohn Royce and Lyanna Mormont beforehand, and they had assured him that they would keep an eye on the slippery lord. Even now, he caught the man's silhouette on the walkway above, staring down at Rhaegal with wary eyes.

Jon couldn't help the childish satisfaction that swelled within him.

"It's good to see you," Sansa said, pulling back and looking at him with a smile. She looked beautiful, as always. "I was so worried." Her eyes glanced to Rhaegal, who was waiting patiently behind him, his reptilian yellow-green stare roving around the square and taking in his surroundings. "You have a dragon, Jon." She cleared her throat. "You have a _dragon._ Why do you have a dragon?"

Jon brushed his hand over Rhaegal's wing; bored, the great beast took flight, lifting up from the square with a beat of his wings that stirred up the sand and knocked over a bench.

"Rhaegal has chosen me as his rider," Jon said casually – it was still a surreal feeling, being bonded to a dragon. "It's not what I want to talk about, though. I need to sit down with you, privately. And I need to talk to Lord Royce and Lord Manderly."

She nodded. Sansa was nothing if not efficient. "I've already had your chambers prepared for your arrival, we can meet in there. When are the others arriving?"

"Ser Davos and Tormund the rest of our men will be here tomorrow morning. I tried to stay with them – I even rode part of the way on horseback – but Rhaegal started to get anxious."

She turned, and they walked towards the castle. "I thought only Targaryens could ride dragons," she said contemplatively.

He shrugged. "I don't know much about dragons, to be honest," he ventured.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but said nothing.

Something strange pulled at the corners of his subconscious – but it slipped away before he could catch it. Besides, he had too many things to worry about without adding such trivial matters to the list.

Marriage, war, family and winter. Those were the only four things that plagued his mind these days.

"Where's Bran?"

"In the library. He wanted to speak to you," Sansa said. He noticed the confidence with which she walked, how she'd slid so effortlessly into the role of Lady of Winterfell. She was good at this. Better at it than he was – levelheaded, smart, with just the right balance of cynicism and optimism.

"I want to speak to him, too," Jon said. "I miss him."

She stopped abruptly, and he turned to her. She closed her eyes. "I told you in my letter weeks ago that he had changed," she said lowly. Her eyelids fluttered open. "Don't expect the same boy you grew up with, Jon," she warned. "When I said he'd changed, I meant it. He's not even the same person."

Jon frowned. "All right."

As they entered the castle, she grabbed his hand. "I really did miss you," she said quietly. Her lips curved into a smirk. "More than I thought I would, certainly."

He squeezed her hand and smiled, pleased. "I've missed you too, Sansa. I'm glad to be home."

Somewhere along the way "home" had gone from being a place to being a group of people. And looking at Sansa's profile, he felt something click into place.

 _Family,_ he thought to himself. _Sansa, Arya, Bran. Davos, Tormund, Sam, Edd._ And now Daenerys.

He longed to see her again, and wished for the days to pass more quickly.

oooo

* * *

 **I've been distracted lately with a couple of Jon/Sansa stories that I decided to give life to. I'll be posting on those soon.**

 **Thanks, y'all!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	19. Chapter 19

**Sorry about the wait! I'm terribly inconsistent.**

 **Just wanted to straighten something out: this is** _ **not**_ **going to be a Daenerys/Jon/Sansa fic. No, no, no. That's too complicated for my little story, and there's something about it that makes me cringe. I just can't really see the three of them together all at once. So rest assured – this is solely about Jon and Daenerys, with some Arya/Gendry on the side and a bit of Sansa/? for a light dessert.**

 **This is a longer chapter than the ones I've posted before, but it didn't seem fair to cut it in half and drag it out, since it's basically just boring stuff and details that I swore I wasn't going to put in the story. Oh well. I'll just add it to my list of failures. ;)**

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oooo

"We've already started making preparations for winter, Your Grace. Ser Jaime sent us instructions – I can go over it with you, and see if you'd like to add anything."

Daenerys smiled. Maester Hammond had stepped up after the deaths of Maester Pyrell and Qyburn, and she could tell he was nervous. He was young to be a Grand Maester – perhaps in his early fifties – but he had kind brown eyes, and seemed to be competent.

"Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing to the chair diagonal from her at the corner of the table. Tyrion sat diagonal to her right. "Ser Jaime and you were smart to get started on this. Winter is blowing down from the North with frightening speed. I'm afraid we won't be prepared," she said worriedly.

He put a book up on the table, and turned it towards her. Tyrion craned his head to look. "This is very thorough," the dwarf said, his tone one of pleasant surprise.

Hammond nodded. "I've been in contact with many of the lords of Westeros, both of larger houses and small. I've gotten an idea of the amount of goods that each region has to offer. The only thing that needs to be resolved before I can finalize the plan is to reinstate lordships in the Stormlands and The Reach. Since the Tyrells and the Baratheons are all dead, there's been a lot of squabbling going on."

Daenerys nodded. She neglected to mention Gendry – she wasn't sure about him yet. Selfishly, she hoped that Arya would come around to the idea of marriage and leadership. "I'll take care of that shortly, after we win the war in the North. What information have you come up with? Just give me a summary," she added, looking down at the many pages in the book that he'd given her.

"The Reach, the Stormlands, and Dorne will be the only places in Westeros that won't be as affected by winter – parts of the Westerlands, Crownlands and Riverlands will get by without too much trouble as well. Luckily, most of our food comes from the southern and central parts of the continent. Lords are now spreading the word that farming will be of the utmost importance in the coming months, and throughout winter as well. We've asked them to focus on things that can be preserved well – grains and the like, and jerky from livestock."

"Jerky is the best idea I've heard in a long time," Tyrion said, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the table. "It doesn't spoil, and can be transported easily. I imagine some of the northern houses are doing this with game, as well – at least while they still can. Wild game seems to disappear during winter."

Hammond nodded. "People up north are scrambling to prepare. The southern houses will help – but not necessarily out of the goodness of their hearts. It will take money, Your Grace," he hedged.

"We don't have a shortage of that just yet," Daenerys said, her words belying her anxiety. "We've got what Cersei stole from Highgarden, and the Westerlands have doubled their efforts in the mines – which we have access to, because conveniently enough both of the remaining Lannisters happen to be sworn to me." She smiled at Tyrion, and patted him affectionately on the hand. "As long as the lords and the common people are paid fairly enough to support themselves, we can use the rest to keep The Reach happy, and perhaps instigate trade with Essos." She looked Hammond in the eye. "I will make sure the lords in the The Reach are satisfied," she said, inclining her head. "However, with the help of my small counsel, _I_ will decide how much they are to be paid, and they will learn to accept it. I understand that they want to maintain a certain standard of living," she continued. "But we must all make sacrifices if we're going to survive this winter and come out of it as a united nation. I will not allow lords to skimp on paying the small folk what they've rightfully earned so that they can buy silk dresses from Dorne. That sort of behavior won't be tolerated anymore. Especially with the potentially substantial casualties from the war in the North and with winter so close behind." She pursed her lips. "I will try never to use violence and intimidation whilst governing," she said honestly, "but as Queen, I need to make sure that _all_ of my people are provided for. And if the highborn won't cooperate with that idea after sufficient warnings, then I won't hesitate to use force."

Hammond nodded. She saw his eyes flash; she thought it might have been something like relief.

"What about the other regions?" Tyrion asked. "What do they have to offer?"

"The Stormlands are covered in hardwood trees, and the game there is plentiful. They'll focus their efforts on lumber and hunting. They also have no shortage of fish, which will keep at least long enough to ship to the Crownlands, and perhaps even to the Vale if the air is cold enough to keep them from spoiling." She nodded her head for him to continue. He cleared his throat. "The main thing that the iron born have to offer is the ore that they can mine, particularly iron, lead and tin. They also have some sheep, so could perhaps provide some wool for clothing. Yara Greyjoy has also agreed to leave some of her fleet here on the east coast, to be used for trade, transport and protection. Dorne's main contribution will be charcoal. The Riverlands, at least the southern half, will still be fairly fertile, and they have so many rivers that freshwater fishing will yield spectacular results. Because of their central location, they've agreed to set up the largest trading posts with military protection, both for land travel and boat travel. There will be outposts around the continent, and main roads will be maintained as best as possible by the locals; still, I suspect we will have to rely heavily on our fleets for transportation."

He paused briefly before continuing. "The main exports from the Vale will be lumber and stone. Their mountains are littered with quarries, and stone will be incredibly valuable for fortifying homes and buildings. They also have good hunting, though they might encounter the same problem that the North has, and animals may be scarce. The Crownlands, especially the capital, will be focused on making products: weaving, metalwork, medical supplies, alchemy, woodwork, tanning leather…you get the idea. As the capital, it will of course be a main hub for trade, and has an excellent port for the receiving and sending of ships. We can use the city to trade with Essos, as you mentioned before, and disperse their products from here by sea and land. The North will be hit hardest, as we all know. Still, they have been preparing for some time, and have stockpiled furs, timber and meat." He paused, and then seemed to remember something. "One of the generals here in the army came to me with an idea. He said that it might be prudent to use deerskin to line the inside of buildings. It will help insulate – stone isn't great for keeping warm, merely sheltering from the snow and wind."

"That's clever," Tyrion said, stroking his beard. "Who thought of that gem?"

"I believe his name is Ser Bronn. Ser Jaime's second in command, if I'm correct."

Tyrion smiled – Daenerys glowered. "I appreciate the idea. It is a smart one." She sniffed. "Although I think Ser Bronn of the Blackwater might be best avoiding Drogon. I'm not sure dragons forgive as readily as I do."

Tyrion huffed out a laugh, but did not comment. "This is well thought out, Maester Hammond," he complimented easily. "You seem to have a good grasp on the details of Westeros, and I hear you are well learned in medicine and history and record keeping. I'd like you to serve as Grand Maester, on the Queen's small counsel."

Hammond bowed his head low over the table. "It would be my honor."

Daenerys smiled. "Do you know anyone that is particularly savvy with money?" she asked curiously. "I don't care if the people in my counsel are male or female, highborn or lowborn. I care that they know what they're doing, and are invested in serving this country as much as I am."

"I do know one such man," he said with a nod. "Honorable enough, and well-connected with all sorts of people. He's done well for himself. I could talk to him for you?"

Daenerys nodded cautiously. "Talk to him – if he's interested, set up a meeting with me after I get back from the war."

He seemed to realize the dismissal, and stood. "I've also been laying out plans for where to settle your foreign armies, if they wish to stay in Westeros. I'll let you know what I've configured when you return." He smiled at her. "Good fortune, Your Grace. I look forward to helping you establish your kingdom. I've no doubt it will be a far better one than it was before."

He gave her a short bow, and then left the room, the door clanging shut behind him.

"I like him," Tyrion said, his voice chipper.

Daenerys rolled her eyes. He chuckled in response.

"Well, I think everything so far has gone really well," he continued, sounding upbeat. "The people were a bit wary, but they seemed to receive you well. It helped that you left your dragons up in the sky, and that Jaime rode in next to you. Despite how terrible my sister was, the people respect Jaime. He did a lot behind Cersei's back to try to hold King's Landing together. Seeing him at your side, as well as Varys and Yara and myself, went a long way towards easing their fears. Continue to show them that you are fair, that you want to be involved, that you want to see them prosper – within a few weeks, things will start to smooth out."

Daenerys nodded. "And how do you think they all took the news of my union with Jon Snow?" she asked, biting her lip.

Tyrion looked up to the ceiling, shrugging. "There was some dissent, to be sure – but I think mostly surprise. I'm not sure how many people truly know how powerful Snow has become; I imagine Cersei kept them all in the dark, and downplayed both him and you. I think the people of the capital had come to expect a mad queen with dragons and an unorganized, foreign army of savages that didn't fight anywhere near as well as their soldiers; and I think they believed that the supposed 'King in the North' was little more than a boy playing at war. They would never have expected him to unite over half the country, and never would have expected _you_ to be so reasonable. Cersei ruled with fear." He poured himself some wine. "Marrying Jon Snow puts up a united front. For the people as a whole, that gives them hope. They don't want to have to deal with war. So the fact that the southern states and the northern states have come together peacefully is a big relief."

She sighed. "I'm just worried," she said, opening up to Tyrion as she often did. "I'm glad that things seem to be going according to plan – I'm rarely that lucky," she said sarcastically. He laughed dryly. "But there's a lot of fear in my heart."

He smiled at her softly. "That's a good thing, remember? Even a strong woman like you needs fear. We can only be brave if we are afraid. Courage without fear isn't courage – it's just arrogance and foolishness." He sighed. "There will surely be difficulties along the road. And politics is still new to you. But you know that I am fiercely loyal to you. You know that Varys is determined to serve you as best he can. My brother has sworn you his sword – I know it might seem like an easy thing to do, but from him it is a significant gift. Of course, you have Missandei and Grey Worm and Qhono. And you'll have a husband to lean on."

Her expression must have given away her apprehension. He traced his fingers over the table, and then laid his hand over hers. "I don't much like the thought of you being married," he said offhandedly, the lightness of his tone not entirely successful at covering up the seriousness beneath. "I like you how you are here and now, strong and single and ready to take on the world with your dragons and your armies. I don't like imagining you with a man because I don't think that you need one," he continued kindly, "and because I have come to think of you how I imagine I might think of a daughter, if I were lucky enough to have one." He paused. "However, if there is _one_ man in all of Essos and Westeros that I would smile to see you marry, it would be Jon Snow," he said, his voice sincere and firm. "Any one of the Stark men would have been a good choice – but they're all dead, or presumed dead, except for the crippled seer and the bastard. He's the only person on this God-forsaken continent that might actually deserve you."

"That is a bold claim," she said half-jokingly, feeling apprehension and excitement and honor that Tyrion Lannister cared for her so much.

He smiled, and she smiled tremulously back. "And yet I dare to make it," he murmured. "But consider this – I would be hard pressed to find someone worthy of the Mother of Dragons," he said softly. "Jon Snow, as irritatingly Northern as he can be, is the only one that even comes close."

Daenerys nodded. She released a shaky breath. "Can I admit something to you?"

"Anything," he said earnestly, squeezing her hand.

"I'm falling in love with him," she blurted out, feeling silly and girlish. She grimaced at the admission.

"Oh, there's no 'falling' about it," he said with a smirk. "You've already fallen. And you have similarly caught him in your net. He looks at you as if you're his whole world. It's rather romantic."

"He doesn't – "

"He does," the dwarf countered, his voice entirely certain. "He does." He smiled at her, and she thought of Missandei's similar claim. "I'm happy for you," he said softly. "I'm happy that this has worked out in your favor. I'm happy that you have all that you deserve – including a man who loves you." He paused. "I know it's been a hard road. I know how you've suffered, the challenges you've faced. But you have risen up above your failures and losses, and have come out better for it. Jon Snow has done the same. You and your king have everything that it takes to rule this country compassionately and justly. There will always be evil in the world, but I have no doubt that you are fully capable of fighting it."

"Just…always be honest with me, Tyrion," she said, honored by his words. "Never abandon me as hopeless."

"As I've said before, you will always have my allegiance," he assured her. "You have my ear, and my counsel, and my advice – as unheeded as it sometimes might be." He smiled at her. "And I will never abandon you as hopeless. You will never be hopeless."

* * *

oooo

"I've already started to prepare for winter," Sansa said, walking along next to him. She was frighteningly competent, her face smooth and calm and her eyes cool and full of intelligence that had lain dormant for far too long.

Which was exactly why he was going to officially instate her as Lady of Winterfell. She might have to marry, eventually – but after all she'd been through, he certainly wasn't going to demand it of her. There were other ways to form alliances and name heirs.

"We've been working hard," she continued. "We've covered all armor with leather. The women of the keep have been slaving away with wool and furs, making clothes and blankets. We've been skinning and tanning hides, chopping up firewood, replacing horseshoes where needed, tending to the greenhouses, slaughtering some of the livestock for jerky." She paused. "I was thinking…"

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"I know the free folk want to stay within their tents, on the land that you've given them to settle," she hedged. "But this winter is going to be the worst one in centuries – according to the maesters. The land they have is out in the open; they'll be hammered with wind and snow constantly, and they'll have nothing to keep their tents from getting buried. I know we have a lot of things to worry about, but I'd like to send them some lumber to build a couple of large shelters just to shield their tents from the brunt of the storms."

He stopped and turned to her, pride swelling in his heart. Unable to help himself, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pressed his cheek to her hair. "You're brilliant," he praised earnestly. "I never would have expected you to think of them." He leaned back, and kissed her on the forehead.

She smiled. "They're just as much our people now as the people within these walls are. We have a responsibility to them. They fought for us when they didn't have to, and they respect you even more than they respected Mance Rayder."

"They'll never respect anyone as much as they did Mance," he said with a sad shake of his head.

"They do so," she said haughtily. "Rosa and Gridget and Erick all said so."

Jon's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "They told you that?"

"Yes," she said snottily. "Rosa said they would do anything for you – short of bending the knee."

This made him laugh. He shook his head, feeling his spirits lift. "That's nice of them," he said humbly.

"That's _amazing_ , Jon," she corrected impatiently. " _You're_ amazing. You inspire people; make them want to work together to achieve great things. You bring people together. Did you know that Erick and Lord Glover have become fast friends?"

He narrowed his eyes, both skeptical of her claim and embarrassed at her praise. "They have not," he scoffed.

She grinned. "They have. They both still act like they hate each other, and sulk and grumble like a couple of grumpy old men, but they spend an awful lot of time together – talking 'logistics,' of course. They snarl at anyone who suggests they might actually like each other."

Jon snorted, amused. "Bloody ridiculous."

"I've also been planning for the wedding," she said. "It's as extravagant as we can afford to make it. We can't waste food like we might have been able to do during summer. But I've had the castle decorated nicely, and I've cleaned up all the rooms for people to stay. I am surrendering my chambers to the queen, and have supplied her with plenty of firewood and furs for the bed. I've had all the rugs and tapestries beaten, and all the floors swept. We've prepared a feast – we only have room for so many inside the hall, but we're going to set up temporary seating outside. I've commissioned a few deerskin awnings to be made, to shelter the square from any falling snow; the wildlings have actually helped us with that. We've gathered all of the fire baskets and lanterns for light and warmth. We've slaughtered cows, chicken and rabbits for the feast, and Cook has baked so much bread I think her hands have turned into yeast," she joked. "We've got cakes and sweets, wine and ale, and we've taken whatever fruits and vegetables we could spare from the greenhouses without depleting our supply."

Jon smiled. "I'm proud of you," he said, looking into her cool cyan eyes. "You've done so well. I know you didn't have a lot of time to plan for a wedding – but I'm grateful for your help, Sansa, I really am."

She squirmed, and gave him a smile. "Thank you," she said. "Also – and I hope this doesn't anger you – I've given the Dreadfort to House Mazin. They fought with us without hesitation. I believe they're truly loyal to House Stark. The Dreadfort's volcanic vents give it warmth and fertile soil, just as our hot springs keep Winterfell from freezing solid. We need that land well tended. I've given them instruction to clean the place out – get rid of any of the questionable… _décor."_ She looked sour.

Jon shrugged – his irritation came swiftly and was gone just as fast. He had made her Lady of Winterfell in his absence, and he was foolish to think that she would send him a raven every time she needed his approval on something. He would like to have known beforehand, but he mostly approved of her decision. The Mazins were a minor house, and fairly new – they had no castle, no holdings, and no lands. It was a fair choice.

He said as much. "It's a good choice," he confirmed. "Fair. Did any of the other lords give you trouble?"

Sansa shrugged. "A couple of them seemed uncertain about the decision. But Lord Manderly and Lord Glover and the rest of them can't very well criticize my bequeathing of lands to a house that heeded the call when they _didn't."_ Her jaw clenched. "I think they knew that would be a very big mistake." Her voice took on a dangerous, cold edge, and his lips quirked up.

"Indeed," he said in response. They stood looking at each other for a moment, her stance defensive, expecting him to disapprove.

He didn't disapprove. Though sometimes Sansa separated her feelings from her actions in a way that made him uncomfortable, she was a good leader. She was able to temper his impulsive side with her cool logic, and removed herself from situations to look at them objectively, which he had a harder time doing.

He turned and began to walk again, and she followed, a tiny smile playing around her lips. "Bran is waiting to see you," she said. "I'll take you to him. Come on."

oooo

* * *

 **This was boring. I know. I'm sorry. I wanted to try to leave this sort of thing out of this particular story, but my need for detail sometimes gets the better of me. I really should have glazed over all that stuff, and should have just jumped straight to Daenerys arriving at Winterfell. Alas, that isn't how it worked out. My apologies.**

 **Next chapter they will all be reunited! And then marriage, and lots of sex, and war.**

 **Love y'all!**

 **Giraffe :)**


	20. Chapter 20

**Enjoy!**

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oooo

Bran stared at his brother – _cousin_ – from across the room as Sam Tarly wrapped Jon in a hug. It was clear Jon hadn't expected his old friend to be in Winterfell, and was extraordinarily pleased to see him.

Then Jon looked past his friend, and his eyes softened as they landed on Bran.

"Hello, brother," Bran said calmly, his back warmed by the fire in the hearth, a book lying open on his lap.

Jon did not run into his arms like Sansa and Arya had done. He merely stepped over, put his hand on Bran's shoulder, and kissed the top of his head. Then he drew back.

"Bran," he said softly. "I thought I'd lost you."

Bran smiled tightly. He did not smile much, anymore. "You came close a few times," he answered. "And I came close to losing you a few times, as well." He stared into Jon's eyes – his Aunt Lyanna's eyes. He could see Rhaegar Targaryen in the line of his jaw and the curve of his ears. "I saw you at Hardhome," he said smoothly. "I saw you at Craster's Keep. And I saw you bleeding out in the snow."

Jon stiffened. "So it's true then," he said gruffly. "You're a greenseer." His eyes were shuttered, suddenly – Bran knew how difficult it was for Jon to talk about his murder.

Because Bran knew everything.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Sansa said you had something to tell me," Jon said, his affect a bit awkward. He sat down in the chair across from him, while Sam stood in the corner and Sansa hovered in the door, watching him with a gaze that bordered on wary.

Bran considered. He had fully intended on telling Jon about his heritage – now he wasn't so sure. Jon was too noble, too honest to go into a marriage without disclosing such a monumental piece of information. And if the wedding was called off, everything would change, and no one would be able to focus on the most important thing: defeating the Night King.

Even without having to worry about the army of the dead, this marriage was essential. They needed to unite the North and South if they were going to establish peace in Westeros. If Daenerys Targaryen were to find out that Jon was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, there was no telling how she would react. He'd watched her, present and past. He knew she had a compassionate nature. He also knew that she was prideful and had a temper. It could swing either way.

He looked over Jon's shoulder at Sam; the man frowned, but seemed to understand. "It can wait," Bran said softly, his eyes sliding back to his cousin. Nothing would ever alter the fact that Jon was his _brother,_ though. Finding out about the circumstances of his birth didn't change that.

Jon's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"We have so many things to worry about right now," he said calmly. "We've got a marriage and a war to prepare for. And winter is coming." He shook his head. "It's not important, at the moment," he lied. "It would only distract you."

Jon pursed his lips and looked like he was going to object; but then he nodded. "Distractions are one thing we can't afford right now," he agreed. "You're right."

Bran gave him a small smile. "It's good to see you, Jon." It was the truth.

Jon reached out and squeezed his hand. "It's good to see you, too."

* * *

oooo

The rest of Jon's company arrived the next morning, Rhaegal sounding their arrival from his position in the sky. As soon as they rode through the gate, Sansa sought out Gendry – Jon wasn't entirely sure why, but he was too distracted by helping his men dismount and unload to ask.

Seeing Tormund and Ser Davos and the rest of his men was great. Seeing Ghost was great. Still, he missed Arya; and he positively _ached_ to see Daenerys.

He sent a silent prayer of thanks to all the gods when he heard a dragon's roar high in the sky three days later. His heart was fit to explode inside his chest; that was not Rhaegal's voice. It was Drogon, and with Drogon came Daenerys.

He tried not to look too eager as he strode purposefully out of the Great Hall; Sansa wasn't buying it, and neither was Ser Davos – Jon saw them share a silent smirk, and he flushed.

He watched as Drogon alone descended; Viserion was nowhere to be seen. Rhaegal flew next to his brother, snapping at his legs playfully until the black dragon purposefully put a foot on Rhaegal's snout and shoved him away. Jon grinned, and then schooled his face into an expression of cordial welcome as Drogon landed on the front wall, accidentally crumbling some stones with his massive clawed feet. Unlike Rhaegal's quiet, mild arrival a few days ago, Drogon lowered his head and roared deafeningly – right in Jon's face.

The soldiers in the square stepped back, staring at their king in concern and holding spears and bows in white-knuckled grips. Jon just squinted and leaned back, somewhat amused. "Alright, alright," he said softly, carefully reaching up to put a hand on the eldest dragon's nose. Drogon purred under his touch. "No need to shout. I'm right here – I can hear you just fine."

Light tinkling laughter accompanied his statement, and he looked up to see Daenerys staring down at him with a warm expression. "You know how he likes to intimidate," she said teasingly. Drogon stepped down from the wall and into the square – all of Jon's men were staring at the dragon with hard, wary eyes, their arrows nocked and their hands on their weapons. He raised his hand, gesturing for them to relax; they did so with some reluctance.

Drogon lowered his wing, and his mother walked gracefully down, using his foot as a dismounting block of sorts. Someone followed behind her, and that's when Jon realized that she was not the only one to have ridden on her dragon's back.

Tyrion Lannister stepped down behind her, followed by his brother and Qhono. Some of the men stiffened, and to ease the tension, Jon shook Tyrion's hand heartily and repeated the process with Jaime – slightly less heartily. Qhono merely nodded at him, putting a hand on his _arakh_ and staring around the square with distrusting eyes.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace," he said. He patted Drogon on the nose, and the dragon seemed satisfied and took off, kicking up dirt.

"It's lovely," she said, looking up at the buildings and smiling softly. She seemed pleased when the people around the square bowed from the waist, looking at her with curious eyes; Jon was glad when he saw little hostility amongst them, at least now that the dragon was gone.

She turned, and her eyes focused in on Sansa, who stood off to the side, her expression smooth and unreadable. "I assume this is your sister?" she asked, inclining her head towards Sansa.

"Sansa," he said with a nod. "The elder of my sisters."

Daenerys smiled, and Sansa seemed taken aback. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Your brother brags about you all the time."

"I've been looking forward to meeting you as well, Your Grace." Sansa gave a shallow curtsy, a smile playing across her lips. Just like Arya, Jon could tell that Sansa was already warming up to Daenerys. His betrothed had an incredible gift: the gift of establishing affection and trust upon a first meeting. She also commanded instant respect whilst doing it, and he wasn't sure if that was just naturally how she had always been or if she'd had to work at it. "You can imagine my curiosity upon the news that my stoic, brooding brother had agreed to marry – and wasn't in the least bit reluctant about it. Now I understand why." A wicked look entered her eyes.

Jon stared at Sansa in horror, just as he saw a blush creep up Daenerys' beautiful face. "Yes, thank you, Sansa," he said dryly, fighting his own blush. "But perhaps you can show the Queen inside before she catches a chill?" Reaching out, he pinched his sister on the arm. She glared at him, and he glared back.

Sansa held out her elbow to the silver-haired beauty, and Daenerys slipped her hand into the crook of her future good-sister's arm.

"I will let Sansa show you to your quarters," Jon said, not able to meet her eyes. He was still steeped in embarrassment. "I'll help Ser Jaime and Tyrion get settled." Qhono was already hovering behind his queen, intending on following her inside.

Daenerys briefly reached out and touched his wrist, her fingers sliding over his skin in a way that had his body screaming out for her. He looked up into her eyes, unable to help himself. It took nearly all of his self-control not to drag her off to the nearest empty room to lift her skirts and pull down her trousers and bury his head between her legs.

He realized with certainty, as her eyes dropped to his lips, that she would let him.

"It's good to see you," she said quietly.

He twisted his wrist around to tangle her fingers in his, giving them a quick squeeze. Then he slid his hand away before it became inappropriate in the eyes of the public. "Join me for lunch?" he asked softly.

She smiled, showing her teeth. "Of course," she said. "Give me a few minutes to settle in – I want to get to know Sansa, and get a chance to learn all of your shameful secrets." She gave him a wicked grin, and he returned it with a slow smile of his own, ignoring the spark of humor in Sansa's eyes.

"There are plenty of those to go around," Jon said, looking up at the sky. "Just take everything she says with a grain of salt. Chances are half of what she tells you isn't true." Sansa scoffed, and he tucked a piece of her fiery hair behind her ear out of habit. "Take care of her, sweet sister," he said. "Make sure she's not too cold in her room."

Giving them both a smile, he turned towards Tyrion and Jaime. Daenerys and Sansa floated towards the door, Qhono trailing after them with his usual intimidating affect. "Shall we?" he said to the two brothers.

"Please," Tyrion said, holding out his hand and gesturing to the castle. "Show us the way, O Fearless Leader."

Jon rolled his eyes, his lips twitching in amusement.

"I imagine your sister wasn't too pleased to see me," Tyrion said sardonically, his face pinched.

Jon shook his head. "What makes you think that Sansa harbors any sort of ill will towards you?" he asked. "You were kind to her when you didn't have to be. You respected her when you could've been cruel. Perhaps she resented you when she was engaged to you, before she realized what kind of a man you were. And then after she married…" He cleared his throat, unable to say Ramsay Bolton's name. "I imagine she appreciated you even more."

"Yes," Tyrion said sadly. "I heard about that. Sansa's a sweet girl. She deserved so much better."

"Yes," Jon said, his heart clenching. "She did."

* * *

oooo

"This is fantastic."

Daenerys noticed Sansa raise an eyebrow skeptically.

"No, really," she insisted. "It's marvelously cozy. I've never been north before, you know," she mused, running her hand along the foot rail of the bed. "I've always been in warm, sunny places, with verandas and gardens and open rooms with balconies. But there's something very safe about a place like this. I imagine I will sleep well here."

"I hope so," Sansa said with a small smile. Daenerys could still see wariness in the other girl's blue-green eyes, but thought that the redhead was warming up to her. It pleased her. "I have something for you, actually," the lovely girl said. She signaled to one of the three serving girls that bustled around the room, lighting candles and fluffing pillows and stoking the fire. The petite brunette went to the wardrobe against the far wall, and opened the doors to pull something out.

Daenerys stepped forward as the girl laid out two garments on the bed. One was light of color, the other dark, and her eyes widened as she came to terms with what they were.

The lighter garment was a gown. It was fashioned out of cream and gold fabric, fine-spun wool and panels of silk masterfully sewn together and embellished with textured ribbons and tiny pearls. A delicate golden lace overlay covered the ivory skirts. The neckline was a gently sloped V, deep enough to be somewhat provocative but not inappropriate, and the small collar around the back and sides of her neck served to lengthen the stripe of skin exposed by the open neckline. It was a heavy dress, no doubt warm, and the thick supportive bodice would negate the need to wear any sort of stiff undergarment.

In contrast, the laces at the back were a warm, shimmery brown, and this same dark color made appearances throughout the design: a ribbon here, a bead there, a few threads and laces and stitching thrown in to contrast beautifully with the lighter tones of the dress.

The other garment was a cloak. It was a dark sable color, made of soft, heavy wool. The hood was lined with coarse tan fur, streaked with white and grey. The inside of the hood and around the shoulders of the cloak was lined with a different fur; she cooed with delight as her hands smoothed over the soft white material.

The leather straps were her favorite part: one of them was engraved with the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen house, the other with the direwolf sigil of the Starks. Similarly, there had been a clasp added at the neck for further closure against the wind, and it was in the shape of a curling dragon, its teeth bared ferociously and its tail curving around to rest under its chin.

"Gendry did that part," Sansa said softly, running her finger along the beautiful silver clasp. "He's a very talented smith – had it done in just a day. This is rabbit fur," she continued, pointing to the white downy substance that lined the inside of the cloak. "So that the wool doesn't irritate the skin around your neck and head. And the fur lining the rim of the hood is wolf," she continued. "It's coarse and oily, and it keeps the snow and ice from getting stuck in it." She cleared her throat. "Arya did the hunting and skinning of the pelts, and I put it together. It's our wedding gift to you. And the dress…" She shrugged, and Daenerys could tell she was nervous. "I wasn't sure if you had something in mind for the wedding. If you already have a gown, then you certainly don't have to wear it. But even though the ceremony is quick, it'll be out in the Godswood, and it's cold at night. This is no doubt heavier than most of the clothing you own." She cleared her throat, picking at her cuticles. "I'm glad I chose the brown. Despite your hair and eyes, you have a warm complexion. The summers in Essos have been kind to your skin." She paused. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, Sansa," she breathed, smoothing her hand over the dress. "They're _beautiful._ " She looked at the younger girl. "You _made_ these?"

Sansa nodded, and her cheeks became peachy. "I've always loved to sew," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "And Arya has always loved to hunt. And it was actually Bran's idea, so I suppose all three of us contributed." She cleared her throat. "Even if you don't wear it to the wedding, you could wear it to another sort of special occasion. The gold and brown make it so that it isn't _just_ a wedding dress. I didn't want to just stick with the ivory and make it useless for any future gatherings."

"Smart," she said with a nod. "But I can't imagine _not_ wearing this for the ceremony," she continued honestly. "Any of my other clothing pales in comparison to this. And I don't have any formal gowns appropriate for winter." She heaved out a sigh, in awe of the gorgeous garments. "They're perfect." She felt tears jump into her eyes. "Absolutely perfect. I don't even mind the wolf bit on the strap here," she said teasingly, running her finger over the leather trappings of the cloak.

Sansa stuttered. "I hope I haven't offended you – "

"You haven't," she said, turning to beam at her soon-to-be good-sister. "You haven't at all. I'm proud to be able to wear the Stark sigil beside the Targaryen one. It symbolizes the unity between our houses." She looked up into the taller girl's eyes. "May I hug you?" she asked abruptly.

Sansa looked shocked. "Of – of course," she said. She leaned down, and Daenerys wrapped her arms around the slim girl, holding her close for just a moment.

When they pulled back, Daenerys took Sansa's hands in her own, squeezing them. "You've given me a great gift," she said softly. "I'd like for you to help me prepare the night of the wedding."

Sansa smiled, and Daenerys noted the appearance of a small dimple on her cheek. "I would be honored, Your Grace."

Just then they turned as the slightly cracked door flew open, banging into a chair. Ghost stood in the doorway, his eyes wild and his tongue lolling out. He looked like he was smiling.

The white wolf bounded over to her, and she grinned and sunk her hands into the fur of his neck as he started to lick her face.

"Ghost!" Sansa scolded, sounding horrified.

"That's alright," Daenerys said, giggling softly when she tried to pull her head back only to have him lean forward, his tongue flicking against her chin. "I don't mind. He's so sweet." She laughed when he nuzzled her chin. "Even if he does have different ideas about personal space."

Just like that, Ghost pulled back from her, bumped Sansa on the shoulder with his nose, and trotted back out through the door, baring his teeth briefly at Qhono in a half-hearted growl before disappearing down the stairs. Daenerys wiped at her face with her sleeve, still smiling.

Ghost never failed to make her smile – just like her dragons.

"So," she said, sitting down at her little breakfast table and gesturing for Sansa to do the same. One of the serving girls poured them wine as the stunning redhead looked at her expectantly. "Tell me about your brother."

Sansa smiled, and looked down at the table. "I'm afraid I don't have much dirt on him," she said apologetically. "A few childhood incidents. Theon Greyjoy and my older brother Robb would get into a lot of trouble, and Jon would participate, but only in a way that meant he wouldn't get blamed for anything." She tapped her nose, and winked. "He's cleverer than he lets on. Robb and Theon would get caught with their hands hovering over the pie, while Jon would somehow manage to be halfway across the castle with an entire pan of hotcakes before anyone knew what had happened. It used to frustrate Robb to no end."

"I can't imagine Jon Snow stealing anything," Daenerys said, leaning forward with a grin. "Much less getting away with it. I'd think that he would go immediately to your father to confess his crimes, burdened by terrible guilt," she said jokingly, thinking of her intended's brooding, serious face and earnest eyes.

Sansa laughed, and Daenerys' heart warmed to see genuine humor in her eyes. It took years off of the girl's face, made her seem like a teenager again – and not a young woman hardened by cruelty and burdened with responsibility.

"Oh, don't worry," the redhead said with a grin. "Jon is the most honorable man that I know." She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming mischievously. "But when it comes to sweets, all bets are off. He can lie as easy as breathing if it gets him one step closer to a pie."

She laughed, delighted and surprised. "Any other vices I should know about?"

Sansa tilted her head. "Not vices," she hedged, looking thoughtful. "But…Jon has this strange…strength." She lowered her voice, and Daenerys leaned forward to hear. "Sometimes, when he gets angry or caught up in violence of some kind, he goes into this odd _berserker_ state. All of the men in the Night's Watch are familiar with it. All of the wildlings know about it. Even _I've_ seen it." She let out a shuddering breath. "During the Battle for Castle Black, apparently he cut down over twenty men within the span of just a couple of minutes. Tormund saw him slam a hammer down into a man's head with so much force that almost the entire head of the hammer disappeared into the guy's skull. He was killed instantly. Rosa told me about a time when they were breaking down camp to leave for Winterfell before the Battle of the Bastards, and Jon got so anxious that he just started ripping posts out of the ground – posts that were practically frozen in the soil, that should have taken three men to pull out. And after the battle – " Sansa stopped here, and swallowed. "He took three arrows to his shield at close range without breaking his arm," she said quietly. "And then he beat Ramsay's face so hard that I thought he was going to kill him. He hit him twenty-one times." She looked up at Daenerys, her eyes haunted. "I counted."

Daenerys shivered. She suddenly remembered the assassin at Dragonstone: how Jon Snow had wrenched the boy's wrist with one hand and broken it; how he'd hit his face until his head cracked against the stone; how he'd snapped the young man's neck with a brutal twist of his wrists; how he'd thrown her attacker to the ground so hard she'd heard the man's spine snap.

"Apparently he gets so caught up in his anger that he destroys all enemies in his path," Sansa continued quietly. "His men say he's invincible." She shrugged, and looked up. _"I_ know that's not true," she said, her voice a tad less solemn. "But our people see him that way. He did die, after all, and then got up and walked off like nothing happened. That makes an impression on people. So does charging into battle entirely alone with no fear." Sansa rolled her eyes. "You can call it brave, you can call it reckless – I think it's both. Sometimes he doesn't think before he acts."

Daenerys felt both charmed and worried upon hearing it. She chewed her lip.

She just hoped that he would be able to settle into kingship and stay away from any serious danger. She was prone to rash decisions herself. But neither of them could afford to be foolish and brave whilst sitting on the throne. They had to think of the bigger picture now. They had a duty to stay alive and well, to hopefully rule Westeros for a very long time.

She might have to talk to him about it.

"Tell me about what it was like growing up with him."

Sansa smiled. "Well…"

oooo

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	21. Chapter 21

**This chapter is the most boring one yet. Sorry. I get caught up in dumb shit like this all the time. I have no self-control when it comes to stupid details that no one really cares about…but whatever.**

 **Just so you know, this story is not abandoned. None of my WIPs are (She Rises, The Zone Where Black and White Clash, and this one). If I ever abandon a story, I will put a note in the summary. But frankly, it isn't in my nature to abandon something I've put time and thought into.**

 **Life has been a mess for me lately – I'm sure most of you can relate, as I think the majority of humans live rather messy lives sometimes. I've had a rough go of it the last few months. And I hope that y'all understand that I'm not perfect, and that I can't devote as much time and energy to Fanfiction as I want, but that I try my best.**

 **So please, if you are reading other people's work, whether it's on Fanfiction or another similar site, do so with compassion. Treat authors with the same respect you would like to be shown, and remember that you can't possibly be aware of what that person's life is like outside of the internet. So don't be too harsh about update speed, or plot holes, or Mary Sues. Remember that these are people who are putting themselves out there, expressing themselves creatively for an audience. If you went to see your nephew in a school play that he'd helped write, and the play was terrible, would you boo? Would you go up to your nephew afterwards and say, "That was totally unrealistic, the character development was horrendous, and your acting was shit"? I should hope not; I should hope you'd be a little more gentle in your approach – try to be honest, yet encouraging. So please, don't behave any differently when you are protected by the anonymity of a computer screen. Honesty is appreciated. Ugliness is not.**

* * *

oooo

"The free folk are some of the best archers I've ever seen in my life," Jon said, looking down at the map that they'd spread out on the table in the antechamber to the great hall. "Better even than the Dothraki. But unlike the Dothraki, they don't fight as well as a unified, organized force."

Tormund picked his teeth with a sliver of wood, lounging back in his chair and looking around the room with watchful blue eyes. "We fought well enough for you at Winterfell, King Crow," he said gruffly.

Jon grimaced. "Yes, you did. And you sustained heavy losses because of my idiocy. I won't risk the complete annihilation of your people by putting you on the ground. You'd serve better stationed on the Wall and on the cliffs here, across the plain." He pointed down to the Wall by Eastwatch, and traced his finger over the plains of the Gift until he reached the wall of cliffs he spoke of. "Your archers can pick them off from the sides while the rest of us do the heavy lifting down below."

"So the idea is to trap them," Jaime said, standing next to Jon and looking down upon the map. Lord Manderly, Ser Davos, Tyrion, Qhono, Beric Dendarrion, Yohn Royce, the Hound, and Thoros of Myr all sat around the table, drinking ale and watching the map with solemn, determined eyes.

"Yes," Jon said with a nod. "Unless they've got some sort of Wall-breaking machine, they'll have to cross at Eastwatch, when the ice gets thick enough. If we meet them before they pass these cliffs, we'll have them boxed in. They'll be stuck between the Wall to the north, the sea to the east, and the cliffs to the south. The bulk of our forces will meet them as they march west, cutting them off before they can escape the valley." He sighed. "Once the army has passed completely beyond the Wall, I'm going to send one of the dragons over to melt the ice. That'll cut off their escape, and we'll be able to finish them off once and for all. I want this to be the decisive blow that ends this war for good."

"And if they get past the main army? If one Walker sneaks past the wall of our forces and escapes south?" Tyrion said. "Even one White Walker could manage to raise old skeletons from the ground and take them south to attack Winterfell and beyond."

"Which is why Grey Worm will keep the Unsullied a few miles back, along with about fifteen thousand Dothraki," Jon said, pleased with the question. "They'll serve as a safety net, to catch any wayward wights or White Walkers. Neither the Unsullied nor the Dothraki have ever fought in winter conditions before. The farther south they can stay, the better."

"We've also deliberately left some of our forces behind throughout the rest of Westeros," Jaime said, looking at his brother. "If the battle goes ill, each city will at least have some protection. And we didn't want to leave the rest of the country vulnerable to any other sorts of attacks."

"Aye, that's smart," Beric said. "What better time for an ambitious leader from Essos to conquer Westeros than when all of its forces are stationed in the North? Not that it's likely to happen, but still."

"So you said one of the dragons will punch a hole through the center, another down the left flank, and another down the right?" Jaime asked.

Jon nodded. "Similar to what Drogon did with your forces. Except Drogon was able to punch one hole, and the Dothraki used that opening to get behind the lines, since you only had a shield wall and not an army behind. With the army of the dead, if we only buckle their center, they'll have us trapped and will be able to eventually surround us."

"Like the Battle of the Bastards," Tormund said with a grunt. "Only worse."

Jon nodded, feeling bitter. He had been foolish. So, so foolish. Because of him, more than half the wildling army was dead. Thousands of his men slaughtered, because he had been rash and unthinking.

He was a king, now. He had to do better.

"So we'll have to buckle their flanks, too," Lord Manderly said gruffly, sipping heavily from his flask of ale. "I imagine you'll send heavy cavalry down the middle?"

He nodded. "Considering the terrain, we'll station cavalry to meet their left flank and at the center," he said, trailing his finger over the map. "We have the high ground from the cliffs going north, and then it dips when it gets closer to the Wall. We'll have heavy infantry here with a shield wall and pikes, because their right flank will have the high ground and we'll have to go on the defensive."

"And the dragons?" Lord Royce asked. "After they rain fire down on their first pass, then what?"

Jon grimaced. "Until we know what tricks the Night King has up his sleeve, I want to be cautious with them," he hedged. "They aren't invulnerable, as you saw when Drogon was injured," he said, looking between Tyrion and Jaime. "And that was with a man-made weapon. The Others have strange magic on their side – magic that we don't know enough about. The ice spears that they use can shatter anything but Valyrian steel and dragonglass. It wouldn't surprise me if they could sink right through the dragons' scales. I don't want to get overconfident."

"So we get a feel for it before we actively employ them?" the Hound said, looking nervous. The dragons made him nervous. Fire made him nervous.

"Aye," Jon said, leaning over the table. He felt tired all of a sudden. "I'll station Viserion on the Wall, Drogon on the cliffs. Rhaegal will fly high and scout, and I'll send him around the back to destroy the ice bridge and cut off their escape. He's the smallest; makes for a lesser target. Normally I'd send Viserion up, but he'll blend in better with the Wall, just as Drogon is of a color with the cliffs. Anything that will make it harder for the Walkers to attack the dragons is useful, no matter how small." He paused, and looked around at them, lowering his tone. "Daenerys will be riding Drogon. The longer I can keep him grounded on top of the cliffs, the better. Because I'll be commanding infantry on the ground instead of riding Rhaegal, I'll be at greater risk. It would be disastrous if both of us were to die. I want to keep her safe. After this is all over, she is the one who matters most. I can't have her flying to the rescue, only to have Drogon get hit and for her to fall. I want Viserion and Rhaegal to take point on this. They might be smaller in size, but fire is fire."

"And the Greyjoys have plenty of ammunition?" Thoros of Myr asked, chewing on an apple and looking like he hadn't a care in the world.

"Each ship has one catapult and fifty fire stones," Jaime answered. "They'll do as much damage from the rear as they can."

"So we've got about a hundred and seventy-five thousand troops on the ground, mixed cavalry and infantry," Tyrion said, running his hand in a semi circle from the western point of the cliffs to the Wall, "about two thousand archers stationed on the cliffs and the Wall to either side, ninety-seven ships from the Iron Fleet floating at sea, and about twenty-thousand of the Dothraki and Unsullied a few miles back to act as a safety net."

Jon nodded. Everything was set. They had a good plan, and he was thrilled with the amount of troops they had managed to call up. It was more than he had originally hoped for.

"Our biggest advantages against the dead are the dragons, the obsidian weapons, and the mounted knights," he said. "The only horses they have are the dead ones that the Walkers ride. Even the tiniest sliver of dragonglass destroys them. And the dragons, obviously, because of the fire. Not to mention that our soldiers are far more skilled than the majority of the wights. Also, I'm hoping that we can cause enough chaos that any semblance of order amongst their ranks weakens."

He paused, looking around the table. "However," he continued cautiously. "They have a couple of advantages as well. The first is a given: they still outnumber us nearly two to one. Bran says he estimated a little over three hundred thousand, give or take. The second is that each White Walker is in command of a legion of about a hundred to two hundred wights, roughly. Which means that there are at least two thousand out there, possibly more. And White Walkers aren't like their foot soldiers. They're stronger, smarter, and have weapons that will shatter anything but Valyrian steel or obsidian, as you already know. They are significantly harder to kill." He sat down in his chair, exhaling deeply. "The third is that they have giants. Not more than a hundred or so, but enough to do serious damage. Our best tactics with those are headshots with arrows and spears. Anything that can be thrown or shot at the head and neck. Hopefully they'll be as susceptible to obsidian as their smaller counterparts. But we don't know. No one has ever fought them, not even the wildlings. So it's probably best to go for the kill shot, and their heads are the most vulnerable." He thought of Wun Wun, and frowned.

"Giants?" Qhono said from the corner, his voice heavily accented. He gestured with his hands. "How tall?"

Jon winced. "At least twelve feet, sometimes as tall as fifteen or sixteen. And they probably weigh…" He looked at Tormund, noticing out of the corner of his eye how many of the lords around the table looked skeptical. "What would you say they weigh?"

Tormund whistled, and looked around the table. "A few thousand pounds. Jon and I both saw Wun Wun kick aside a horse like it was a fucking mouse that had got in his way."

Qhono nodded, but looked undaunted. Jon was beginning to think that the huge Dothraki wasn't afraid of anything at all. Then again, none of the Dothraki seemed to be afraid to die. And what was worse than death, in the end? If death did not scare you, what would?

Jaime cleared his throat. He and Jon had talked long into the night the previous evening, and they had discussed their plan at length. Jon never thought he'd be grateful for the man who had once pushed his brother out a window, but the elder Lannister had a brilliant mind for warfare, and he and Jon worked well together when talking about such things.

"Each of you knows which soldiers in your armies are the most skilled archers," the blond said. "Each of these men will receive obsidian-tipped arrows, as opposed to just oil and fire. They'll be asked to concentrate their efforts on the giants and the White Walkers, as Walkers can't be killed by fire. We also have Qyburn's two scorpions from King's Landing. They'll be arriving with the company in two days and fitted with dragonglass heads."

"How many weapons have already been made?" Royce said, looking just as haughty and unpleasant as he always did. Still, Yohn Royce was an honorable man. Jon's general dislike of the man's affect did not change that he was a good man and an excellent military leader. Plus, he commanded the largest force on the continent, other than the Dothraki. The Vale, due to its general isolation from the rest of the country, had the most intact army in Westeros. They were contributing nearly forty thousand men, more than any other group except for the Dothraki – and unlike the Dothraki, they were all heavy cavalry and heavy infantry and used to fighting in harsher climates.

Jon would deal with Lord Royce's snobbery all day for the rest of his life if it meant he had access to the Knights of the Vale. He knew that without them, the odds would not be in his favor.

"About half of the Dothraki have had their weapons edged with dragonglass," Jon answered tiredly. "We're working through the night to make more. Many swords have been reforged with veins of obsidian. It's proven difficult to work with. Gendry Waters is particularly gifted, and he's gotten creative with ways to incorporate the glass into weapons that we already have – somehow fold it into the metal. Pikes and spears and arrows are easily fixed with dragonglass heads, and we have tons of knives and short swords – crude, but sharp and effective." He shrugged. "Right now, about two-thirds of our forces are equipped. If we keep going at this pace, we'll be able to arm most of our forces by the time we have to march for the Gift."

"And front lines are priority, I presume?" Royce said with a raised eyebrow.

Jon nodded. "Yes, My Lord. All of your men will be equipped. Every soldier fighting at the Gift will be armed with dragonglass before any of the Dothraki and Unsullied left behind. I don't want a single man in the main force to be fighting without an obsidian weapon. They would be practically defenseless."

"Good," Royce said, just as Lord Manderly nodded his head in appreciation.

"Let's break for the day," Jon said, standing. The rest of them followed suit. "Confer with your lieutenants. We'll gather again when the rest of our forces get here, when Grey Worm, Yara and Edmure can join us. Edd and Jorah Mormont should arrive here sometime tomorrow. Then we can finalize plans and smooth out the final details."

As they filed out, Jon spoke. "Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime – Daenerys, Sansa and I would like you both to join us for dinner here in the conference room this evening. We need to go over preparations for winter. Shouldn't take long."

oooo

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 **So I promise, next chapter you will see some long-awaited action between our two main characters. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Then, chapter after next will be the wedding! Yay!**

 **I hope to have the next chapter out by the end of this month. But I'm not going to make promises. Just know that I haven't abandoned this – nor** _ **will**_ **I abandon it. You have my word.**

 **Thanks for reading, and for being so awesome! Y'all are the best.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	22. Chapter 22

**Please note that the following paragraph is directed at a very small but annoying percent of my readers. The rest of you are gems, and I love you. But here we go. It has to be said.**

 **I just want to say a giant FUCK YOU to anyone who has mentioned how I've abandoned this story. Honestly, it is destructive, shaming comments like** _ **"RIP you've abandoned it"**_ **and** _ **"What a waste of time for readers"**_ **that make everybody who writes on this site** _ **WANT**_ **to abandon their stories. If you can't appreciate a fic as something that someone ELSE has written, for themselves, for others to enjoy at the author's own pace, then you can take your snide comments and toxicity elsewhere. It's not welcome here. If one more person gets on here and whines about shit like this, I will officially quit FanFiction. And you will know who is to blame.**

 **Moving on.**

 **A guest reviewer cracked me up the other day. They simply said** _ **"There is an excessive amount of nostril flaring in this story".**_ **Lol, you have called my attention to it, and I will attempt to be more cognizant of my characters' nostrils in the future. The strain of all this flaring might be too much. Wouldn't want any nose injuries. Thank you for your observation, haha.**

 **Also, I am aware that I have Mary Sue'd Jon. I know he's too good to be true in this story. But did I make any promises with this fic? Nooo. No, I didn't. I distinctly remember warning y'all that this fic is by me, FOR ME, and I told you it would be trash. So I won't apologize for his annoying characterization. Thanks for pointing it out, because if it was unintentional and I wasn't aware of it I'd be mortified and go back to edit things. But turns out I am absolutely aware of how frustratingly perfect I've made him in my story, and I just don't care.**

 **Also, I know that a lot of you are disappointed with season 8. I am disappointed, too. Take heart though, I hear a rumor that they'll be making ASOIAF movies after GRRM finishes the books. Which, you know, could be years from now, but hope springs eternal and all that.**

 **Just a warning: this chapter sucks. Writer's block has been an ever-present frenemy these past few months, so I'm sorry. Still, it can hardly be worse than the last three episodes of the show, so I don't feel too bad about it.**

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oooo

It was two days later when the rest of Daenerys' entourage arrived in Winterfell. She was pleased when Arya gave her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek—likely as much affection as the assassin would ever show anyone. She was also pleased to see Grey Worm and Missandei together, and they both gave her respectful bows before she clasped their hands in hers and welcomed them to the North.

Viserion did not land to greet her, but he flew low overhead and purred, which was the only acknowledgement she would receive from him in front of so many people.

She watched her husband-to-be out of the corner of her eye as he conversed lowly with Yara, admiring the gleam of his damp curls and how his cloak accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. She took in his earnest eyes and the sincere quirk of his lips and the gentle hand he put on Yara's bony shoulder, and was once again hit with the realization that she was extraordinarily lucky.

Tyrion had been right. There weren't any men as good and honorable as Jon Snow—or as frustratingly handsome whilst being so.

Later in the day, after a few meetings with the war council and Sansa's handpicked group of wedding planners (Daenerys was impressed by the sheer amount of work that her future goodsister was putting into it), she and Jon and Sansa once again took to the square as a group of wildlings arrived, laden with weapons and furs and wild game. Most of them set up camp outside the walls, but they waltzed into the city casually and without any airs, nodding respectfully to Daenerys and Sansa and treating Jon with the familiarity of a sibling. Tormund came out to see his friends and family, and ruffled the hair of two little girls who looked to be about eleven and seven. They were obviously sisters.

Daenerys then watched in rapture as the same two girls ran to Jon, giggling as he caught one in each arm and lifted them off their feet.

"Uncle Jon!" the older one greeted with a smile. "Willa and I came to see you get married!" She then turned sharp, clear blue eyes on Daenerys, one arm locked around Jon's neck. "Is that her? The southern queen?" she asked, using her free arm to point. Her little sister, Willa, turned in Jon's arms to stare at Daenerys as well.

Jon made a disapproving noise in his throat. "It's not polite to point, Johnna. Especially at a queen. This is Queen Daenerys, of House Targaryen. And yes, we're to be married tomorrow."

Johnna looked appropriately chastised, and Willa turned shy blue eyes away from Daenerys to press her face back into Jon's shoulder. "Sorry," the older one said to Daenerys, looking sheepish. "You're really pretty."

Daenerys gave the girl a gentle smile, charmed. She felt something burgeon within her heart to see Jon with his arms full of children; and an equal amount of desire flooded through her veins. "Thank you," she said to Johnna. "But I'm not half as beautiful as you and your sister are. What lovely hair!" she exclaimed, gesturing to Willa's bright orange hair and Johnna's silky chestnut locks.

Johnna blushed, and Willa peeked at Daenerys before hiding her freckled face in Jon's cloak once again. "Thank you," Johnna mumbled.

Just then Tormund came up, and grabbed each girl by the backs of their coats, lifting them out of Jon's embrace. "Come on, you vermin," he said fondly. "King Crow has things to do. You'll get to see him again when he's not so busy."

Johnna scowled and muttered at "Uncle Tormund" under her breath, but scampered off with her sister in tow with one last hurried "goodbye" to Daenerys and her betrothed.

"The free folk brought their own dinner," Tormund said to Jon gruffly. "I'll be in Rosa's tent if you need me for anything," he finished, gesturing to a pretty dark-eyed wildling that waved and winked at Jon from across the courtyard as she shepherded Johnna and Willa and two other children through the gates. Then without ceremony, the giant redhead turned and lumbered off.

Jon shook his head amusedly. He noticed her questioning stare. "Johnna and Willa's mother was turned at Hardhome," he said quietly, his eyes solemn. "Tormund and a few other free folk have taken them in."

Daenerys frowned. "That's awful," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Karsi was a good sort," he said, his voice turning gruff with emotion. "Smart, loyal." He smiled. "Raised two sweet girls."

Daenerys grinned. "Johnna seems like a bit of a troublemaker."

Jon nodded, absently brushing his fingers against the back of her arm. "More than a bit."

Her heart stumbled, and she grabbed his elbow. "Would you mind if we spoke in private for a moment?" she asked abruptly, feeling her body flush with heat.

This was ridiculous. She was attracted to him, and he had proven to be attracted to her, and they were getting married on the morrow.

He looked puzzled. "Of course," he said smoothly. He gestured to a seamstress' shop, and asked the woman (whom he referred to as Mistress Grant) if they could borrow the back room to speak in private. The old woman bowed her head and showed them through, and Daenerys shut the door behind her before she leaned up onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

He froze in shock, his arms tensing under her fingers. Then he groaned deep in his throat, and Daenerys' lust was magnified tenfold when he grasped the back of her neck and slanted his mouth over hers in a sensual kiss that left her reeling. She gasped into his mouth, and then his tongue brushed hers, and his free hand pressed insistently into her lower back, and she felt an immense, all-encompassing desire that she had never known in her life.

The man could kiss. His lips were soft and insistent, and her brain went fuzzy, struggling to function through the hazy pleasure that flushed through her body like dragon fire. Her hands shook, her fingers sliding beneath his cloak to touch what she could of his body. He wore no armor, no hard leather or metal—only fur and fabric.

Jon ravaged her mouth like a man starved. Gone was the reserved, respectful-to-the-point-of-absurd man she had proposed to last month. In his place was the man she had seen only glimpses of: when he'd tossed the limp body of a would-be-assassin to the floor, when he'd fought his little sister in the training yard, when his eyes had flashed with hatred as he'd spoken of Ramsay Bolton. _Brutal places make for brutal people,_ she remembered him saying. And as his hands went to the backs of her thighs and he lifted her effortlessly onto a table laden with bolts of cloth, she was reminded of it.

Daenerys let out a startled gasp when she felt the hard length of him press against the junction of her thighs. Gods, it had been so long since she'd felt a man like this—

The short blowing of a horn tore them apart. He stood in the cradle of her thighs, one hand on her back and the other behind her knee, his eyes filled with equal parts regret and desire.

"I wish I could say I was sorry," he said hoarsely as the horn blew a second time. "That this was wrong and inappropriate, considering we've yet to be married." He let out a tortured sigh. "But I've wanted you since the moment I saw you."

Her heart pounded. She leaned up, and pressed her lips to his in a chaste kiss. "I don't want you to be sorry," she murmured against his lips. She groaned in frustration when he lifted her up, pressing her core against the bulge in his trousers one last time before he let her slide to the floor. "I just want _you."_

Her fingertips went to his chest when he leaned down to brush his lips over her cheekbone. His hands left her backside to cradle her waist. "Tomorrow night," he murmured, his voice rough, "you can have me any way you like." He sighed, and then pulled back from her, catching her hands in his own. "But now we need to go greet whomever is currently riding up to the gates."

She struggled not to pout. "As is our duty," she said wearily.

He smiled at her, and kissed her one last time, and then they left the privacy of Mistress Grant's back room and strode out into the courtyard once more. The seamstress gave Daenerys a knowing smile, and bowed her head respectfully.

Daenerys felt her stomach lurch when she saw a small retinue of black-cloaked men on horses approach. Men from the Night's Watch. But one of their number wore brown, and she instantly recognized him by the way he sat his horse. She would be able to pick Ser Jorah out of a crowd even if she were half-blind.

She had forgotten about him. He'd been wounded beyond the Wall, and it had taken Jon's mention of him to remind her. She had been so preoccupied with Jon Snow that the man who was most loyal to her had slipped her mind completely.

Guilt flooded her. But when Ser Jorah dismounted—and not without effort due to his wounds—he immediately dropped to one knee in front of her.

"My Queen," he said, head bowed.

"Oh for goodness sake, rise, Ser Jorah," she said impatiently. She leaned down and grasped his elbow, urging him to his feet. "You've been wounded. The sentiment is appreciated, but no one expects you to kneel when you've got a great big hole in your side."

"These past three months have allowed me to heal," he said gallantly, though still he grimaced in obvious discomfort. "Though I would rather have done so at your side."

She smiled at him. "I would rather you'd done so as well, but I doubt the journey back to Dragonstone would have been kind to you. I'm glad to see you've healed well, though I'd appreciate it if you'd continue to be kind to yourself until you can at least ride a horse without looking as though you're about to keel over." He looked properly chagrined. She cleared her throat. "I assume you've heard the news?"

Jorah nodded, and glanced over at Jon, who was clasped in a hug with one of the men in black. "I hear congratulations are in order," he said. She could see the hurt in his eyes. She could also see the hope. "No one could be more worthy of you, Your Grace," Jorah said lowly. "You've chosen well, as you do in all things."

"He…makes me happy," she said softly. "And he didn't balk when I told him I couldn't conceive."

"A rare man," Ser Jorah said, squinting up into the sun as three dragons flew high overhead, roaring with the joy that came with absolute freedom. "One I am happy to see you marry."

Daenerys swallowed. "All my family are gone, Jorah," she said quietly, laying her hand on his arm. "My father and brothers aren't here to give me away. I'd very much like it if you would stand in for them."

He smiled at her. Again, she could see that mixture of happiness and hurt in his azure gaze. "I would be honored, Your Grace."

"Good," she replied. "Now, I want you to go to Sansa over there, and request that she have someone show you to your quarters. And I want you to rest some before the War Council later this afternoon." He opened his mouth to protest, and she cut him off. "That's an order, Ser Jorah."

He bowed his head in acquiescence. "As my queen commands."

She watched him walk away, towards where Sansa was standing conversing with Tyrion at the mouth of the keep. _If only I could have loved him as he loves me,_ she thought sadly. It wasn't fair for such a noble, handsome man to suffer the bonds of unrequited love.

She turned back to Jon, where he was turning the bearded man he'd been embracing towards her. "Edd, this is my betrothed, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. Your Grace," he said to her, "this is Eddison Tollett, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

After Edd bowed, she clasped his hand graciously in her own. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Commander," she said. "I've heard a great many things about you. You have Jon Snow's trust, and therefore you have mine. Anything you need of me, only ask."

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said cordially, his voice and manner rough but friendly. "And the same goes to you. If Jon thinks you're worth following, that's enough to show the rest of us you're worth following." He clapped Jon on the shoulder, and Daenerys was charmed. "We'd follow this lad to the ends of the earth."

"I don't doubt it," Daenerys said. She held out an arm, and tucked her hand into the crook of Edd's elbow when he drew alongside her. Jon and the rest of the men followed them back towards the castle. "He speaks of you like family," she said. "I'm glad to have you here for the wedding. And I know Jon is beyond pleased."

"Happy to be here, Your Grace," Edd replied. "I'll be honest, I was afraid he was being pressured into it," he said, glancing at her nervously. "But then I got his raven, and now seeing him here with you…" He cleared his throat. "I've seen Snow smile more times in the last five minutes as I've seen him smile in the entire time I've known him."

She smiled. "So I've been told," she said, thinking of something similar Sansa had said not an hour ago. She patted his arm. "I imagine you're peaked after such a long journey. Would you and your men lunch with me? I'd like to hear more about life at the Wall. I need to know what Jon and I will need to change. And whether or not the Wall will be strictly necessary, after we defeat the Night King."

Edd looked surprised, as if the notion had never occurred to him. "I'd…never really thought about it," he said. His eyes lit up. "I never considered I'd have a life beyond my Night's Watch vows."

"Well," she said, "let's see how things turn out. It may be we can utilize it for another purpose. Let's talk about it, shall we?" She craned her neck around. "Jon? Have you anything to say?"

Jon, who'd been listening for a few minutes, nodded. "Definitely worth a discussion."

"I'm sure we can come to an arrangement of some sort," she said. She extracted herself from Edd, and came to walk alongside her soon-to-be-husband, craning her head up to whisper into his ear. "After all, you did say 'any way you like.'"

Jon choked. Laughing, she led them into the Great Hall for some lunch.

* * *

oooo

"You don't have to fret so, Sansa. She's going to look beautiful no matter what you do or don't do. You could douse her in horse manure, and she'd still be perfect."

"I don't want her to be beautiful," Sansa sniffed, fussing with Daenerys' silvery-blonde hair and glaring at her younger sister. "I want her to be _radiant._ I want her to look more gorgeous than she ever has before, and for Jon's jaw to drop when he sees her."

Arya took at bite of her apple, raising an eyebrow as Daenerys flushed under the praise. "Whatever," the younger Stark said, sitting on Daenerys' bed and watching the proceedings with obvious boredom. Still, she hadn't left yet, so Daenerys assumed the assassin wanted to be here. After all, Arya Stark was the last person on earth that would do something she didn't want to do, or be someplace she didn't want to be. "You should keep it simple. We are in the North, after all. Simple is best."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to put it up in some ridiculous southern style. She's not Cersei, and I don't want her to look like it. But it needs to be better than just a simple braid."

Missandei was smiling, lacing up one of her queen's boots.

Arya looked pensive. "I saw something in Braavos, once," she said slowly. Daenerys felt Sansa's hand freeze on her hair. Arya didn't talk much about her experiences in Braavos. "A different kind of braid. I heard it referred to as a 'fishtail.' May I?"

"A fishtail braid?" Sansa said, disdain coloring her tone. "What an ugly name."

Still, she stepped aside as Arya came up behind Daenerys. Comb in hand, the younger sister began to weave the queen's wavy locks back into an intricate braid. Her fingers were clumsy and ill suited to the task, and she quickly made a noise of disgust and gave up.

"You get the idea?" Arya said impatiently, picking up the half-eaten apple she'd discarded and taking a bite, juice dribbling down her chin.

Sansa raised a condescending eyebrow at her sister, but studied the unfinished hairstyle with interest.

Missandei cleared her throat. "For what it's worth, I think it's pretty. Ugly name or not."

Daenerys gave Sansa and Arya an encouraging smile. "Give it a try," she said softly. "We've still got hours before the ceremony. If we don't like it, we can redo it."

"Are you nervous?" asked Arya, cocking her head.

"To marry your brother?" Daenerys asked. She shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I'm not—not really." She swallowed, and met the flat grey eyes of the girl that had sailed across the ocean to become a Faceless Man. "I love him," she said, admitting to Jon's sisters what she hadn't told him yet.

Arya gave a rare smile, her eyes sparkling with joy and mischief. "And he's pretty."

Sansa gave a scandalized laugh. Daenerys winked at them both. "There is that."

oooo

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 **Like I said, this was trash, and I'm sorry. The wedding and bedding is next though. I can't promise when it'll be. Probably two or three months. Could be sooner, could be later. The only promise I can make is that I won't abandon it. I've made that promise before, and I'll make it again. I'll never abandon a story. Taking a year to update doesn't mean it is abandoned. So just practice some patience. Or go find another GOT story to tide you over. Or go write your own GOT story to tide you over. Now, there's a thought!**

 **Love you guys. Most of you, anyway. Remember, it is okay to ask for updates, or to ask when I might update, or to leave a sad face and say, "I wish you would update." But any meanness or nasty sarcasm needs to stay out of it. If you think it is a waste of time to wait for updates, then go read a story that says, "Complete." Or go buy a book at Barnes and Noble. Ta da! See, I just fixed your problem for you. But it is a waste of time to say that my story is a waste of time, because you just spent a few minutes of your life writing a comment that is more likely to get an author to stop writing altogether than it is to prompt an update.**

 **Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you feel so inclined.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


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